


Your Heart Pounding

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill), Linane



Series: Deathless [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drama, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Possession, Post BotFA, Slow Burn, Some violent imagery, behavior changes, hobbit reverse big bang 2014, partially canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 70,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2731868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/pseuds/Linane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Hobbit Reverse Big Bang, 2014: </p><p>The sons of Dis wake after the Battle of Five Armies to a miracle. </p><p>But miracles sometimes come with caveats. As Fili struggles to establish power from the outskirts of a bloodied field, Kili stands ever at his side. But they are young and injured, and have only instinct and a deep, evolving love to guide them when dreams twist out of shape and Fíli starts bending under the pressure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the Hobbit Reverse Big Bang 2014, based [on this gorgeous art by Linane.](http://linane-art.tumblr.com/post/104600813101/linane-art-dragonsquill-and-delorita-present-our) Created by DragonsQuill and Linane. Written by DragonsQuill.  
>   
> Click the link above for full size! <3
> 
>  
> 
> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)

\-------  
**Silence.**

**The world.**

**The universe.**

**The dark.**

**Silence.**

**Anticipation.**

 

~~~~~~

Fíli fell protecting their uncle. 

The blows fell at once, two orcs behind him and Kíli was distracted – distracted for a handful of horrible seconds, pushing away a blow meant for Thorin –

The swords bit deep, slicing to bone.

Fíli didn’t scream. He breathed-

“Kíli,”

-as he fell to mud formed of dirt, blood, and gore.

Kíli screamed for him; raw with horror, terror, and a blinding fury that cracked open his heart and flooded his arm, flowed through the familiar weight of his longsword, and tore into the flesh of Melkor’s abominations.

 _We have to protect Thorin, Kíli_.

A low growl as Kíli slipped-

_At any cost_

-in blood, in _Fíli’s_ blood-

_If I die_

-falling to his knees, the sound of rattling breaths (he nearly wept to hear them) rising above the metallic clang of swords and shouts of pain-

_I want it to be protecting Thorin_

More orcs, an endless wave.

_And our people_

“No,” Kíli whispered, trying to wield the sword with one hand so he could touch Fíli’s jaw with the other, but he couldn’t, he was so tired, and for the first time in his life it was too heavy-

_And our home_

“No,” Kíli screamed, twisting his blade into an orc’s stomach, letting it stagger away, grabbing the final axe in his brother’s boot and throwing it with all his strength into the eye of a second.

_And you_

Kíli knelt in the muck with his brother’s lighter sword in one hand and his brother’s hand in the other. Around him, war raged: death and loss and terror, and Thorin, driven to madness by gold and dragon fire and obsession. 

_If I die_

“No.” Kíli lifted the trembling, skinned knuckles to his lips and met the shocked eyes of his brother (a flash of white at his side, a hint of bone). Fíli’s mouth moved, curved into a desperate smile smeared in red and black. Kíli didn’t smile back, couldn’t offer the comfort Fíli was trying to give him. “Not today.”

Fíli breathed, animals roared, eagles screeched, and Kíli screamed into splashes of gore and fractured cracks of white light.

\----

**A sound.**

**Creak of leather.**

**Crack of metal.**

**The echo of a voice.**

**Shift.**  
\----------

**[I]**

Kili dreamed of death.

He dreamed of blood, splashed on his brother’s lips. He dreamed of screaming - orcs and men, elves and dwarves, and once of a Hobbit, high and almost fluting. He dreamed of pain and of loss. He dreamed of losing everything, everything that mattered, and he sobbed in his dream as he realized losing everything wasn’t so difficult as he’d imagined. Losing everything should have been catastrophic, should have meant the deaths of hundreds, should have meant ruin and destruction and failure and dragon fire.

He cried out in fear and reached into the darkness of his dreams as he saw the truth: losing everything was so, so simple. It might have already happened, while he hid away in his nightmares (watching Thorin die again and again, seeing that flash of red hair as it disappeared into an army of orcs, and then red, red on honey colored hair and pale lips)-

Losing everything meant losing Fili.

And he couldn’t remember, couldn’t remember if Fili had still been breathing when the first arrow bit deep into his flesh and knocked him off his feet.

He hid in dreams of death because it meant not facing the possible reality of it. 

_Coward_ , a voice whispered in his dreams, and it sounded like Thorin, low and disappointed.

_I can't risk the fate of this quest for the sake of one dwarf._

Kili preferred the screams.

But then, even worse: _I belong with my brother,_ and a splash of blood, haltering breaths, and death, death, death.

His chest burned. 

_Wake up._

_No._

_He’s waiting._

_No._

_He’s alive, he’s waiting._

_I saw-_

_Wake up._

\----

**ONE**

The first sound Kili heard was his own breath.

It sounded hollow and loud, a steady rhythm inside his head, echoing up from his chest. There was something desolate about it, that rise and fall from the darkness, but he embraced it, something real, something other than the dim memory of screams.

The second was this: a low thrum of voices he couldn’t quite identify, but he knew them; knew them much more intimately than this strange give and take of air. He’d known them all his life. They were _safe._

But safety didn’t belong here.

He would never be safe again, not when Fili-

The pain returned next. It started in his ribs, a steady ache that rose and ebbed, stealing away the rhythm of his breath. But it spread from there: his shoulders, his legs, his back. As his mind shook free of blood and death and _I belong with my brother,_ so did the burn along his side and the sharp stab in his right knee. 

He put names to the voices before he could make out the words: Dwalin, his was the low growl; Balin, soothing; and Oin, trying to whisper but failing. Kili almost laughed at the last, because Oin fussed when he was worried and fussed when he was happy, but he couldn’t get enough air. His chest and stomach felt bound in iron.

“-n’t envy who has to tell the lad,” were the first words he understood. Oin’s voice, familiar from all the scrapes and bruises from his childhood. “He fought like a thing possessed. Must’ve killed dozens of the Valar-forsaken things. But there’s nothing to be done. Even the elves have given up.”

Dwalin snarled (years of training, years of Dwalin straightening his shoulders and setting his stance and growling in his ear _you have to be able to defend yourself!_ ). “Of course they have! They’ve their precious gold, thanks to Dain bowing and scraping at the elf king’s ridiculous feet! No reason to give a shit about us now-”

“They’ve exhausted themselves caring for our injured, brother,” Balin chided, his voice all tangled with a hundred lessons, kind but unyielding. “They have to focus on who they can save.”

_Who they can save?_

_Who-_

“Or they think they can control Kili better than the others,” Dwalin muttered. There was a dark sort of satisfaction when he added, “They’ll be in for a surprise, I think.”

Oin, officious, “If you’ll give my patients enough quiet to recover, I’m sure they will!” A new sound, which Kili sluggishly recognized as the clinking of bottles. “The elves may have given up on Fili, but I’ll not let such a brave lad go without a fight.”

_Fili._

_Fili._

_Fili’s here._

_Fili’s alive._

Kili took a deep breath now, forced it through the pain. 

**_Wake up._ **

Through pure force of will and a brief, blinding bolt of pain, Kili opened his eyes. 

The interior of the tent was dark and close, and it took his eyes more time than they should need to adjust to the play of shadow on shadow. The cloth was worn but thick, barely wide enough for the three dwarves standing in front of the flap. Light peeked in through thin spots in the fabric, probably drawn out of the mountain and put to use. 

His head spun, but he shifted, carefully worked an elbow under his ribs and pushed up. Slowly, dizzily, he focused on the three familiar forms of his cousins, out of armor, their shoulders bent and their heads low. 

_Exhausted._

Yes. Every bone ached. He could feel it in the hush of their voices.

How long had he been asleep?

How long had he been _awake_? It had taken so much out of him to move it felt like an hour or more, and he knew he’d missed some of the murmured conversation. 

Balin’s voice was gentle, and Kili caught the shade of his hand on Oin’s arm. It was lumpy with bandages, and the movement was stiff with discomfort, but nothing showed in Balin’s stance. “-eat something,” he was saying. “The elf king will be back soon to see Kili.”

_But Fili-_

Words jumbled together, and Kili’s chest stuttered and gasped silently for breath.

Oin growled. It was a low and menacing noise, full of an ancient anger Kili had never heard in that voice before. It echoed with the memory of his uncle, of Thorin, of pain turned to hatred turned to madness. Of _I will have war!_

Kili nearly fell, but he didn’t, gritting his teeth against sound so he could listen. If they knew he was awake, they’d fuss and try to hide the truth from him. He was always the younger son, always the indulged one. 

“To see Kili. And I’ll see to Fili while they linger over their favorite, since they will not,” Oin snarled, even as the others pulled him out of the tent, even as Balin said: 

“You saw his injuries,” in a voice that had abandoned hope. “You helped to _set_ them.”

Words coalesced, bits and pieces, forming a whole that Kili couldn’t imagine, couldn’t wrap his brain around, couldn’t-

Fili was _alive._

Fíli was alive, but the elves were going to let him _die._

Fury moved him. Fury in his arms, in his legs, in the torn muscles of his stomach. Fury, all tangled with love. 

Kili didn’t know how long it took for him to sit up, to drag his legs over the side of the low pallet, to push weakly to his knees in the worn grass (no blood, no blood, clean and green and smelling somehow of the Shire and his brother at his side and rare moments of peace). He knew only that it _hurt_ , that he couldn’t stop, he had to follow them, had to find the elves and hurt one if he could.

He had never hated elves as Thorin had wanted. But he would lay hands on one now, knock him down from his great height, pin him, _demand_ that they do everything they could to keep his world from cracking any more than it already had.

The anger didn’t feel good, but it didn’t feel wrong, either. It was just an extension of himself, a source of strength that pushed him, finally, to his feet. Once, he could sprint up trees, fight wargs, spar for hours. Now his stomach cramped and sweat dripped from the line of his hair as he took a shuffling step forward.

That was when he saw Fili.

He didn’t feel the impact as his knees hit the ground, didn’t care, because here was _Fíli_ , on another low cot, paler than Kili had ever seen him, and Kili could reach out and rest a hand on the thick swatch of bandages that covered his brother’s chest.

“Fili,” he whispered, and there was no blood bubbling between his brother’s lips, and that had to mean something, it had to mean hope. 

Kili’s hand trembled - fear? exhaustion? love? - for a long moment over Fili’s chest. Kili knew Fili wasn’t a large dwarf. He’d known it since he was thirty-six and realized for the first time that he looked down instead of up at his strutting, handsome big brother. But Fíli somehow filled the space around him, seemed taller and broader than he was.

That was gone now.

Unconscious, with those sharp eyes closed and his slow smile nowhere to be seen, Fili was diminished. He was small for the first time, and delicate.

Kili’s throat hurt, his eyes burned.

He lowered his hand over the strong chest, barely resting it against the skin.

Fili’s chest moved.

Barely, barely, but it moved.

Kili would have sobbed, had he had anything in him other than _joy_ , other than _hope_ , other than _terror_. But he was too tired. Instead, he groped over the bandages, skirted around red stains that made him feel weaker still, until he found Fili’s hand and gripped it.

_lifted the trembling, skinned knuckles to his lips_

Fili’s hand had always fit with his, rough callouses not quite matching his own, solid and strong. Now, it felt thin and strangely heavy in his grasp. Fili’s hands had always been broader and stronger than Kili’s, not narrow and weak.

“Fili,” because here was his world, barely breathing and dy-

Kili leaned forward, delicate and careful, terrified of losing his balance and landing on top of his brother, of landing on the rib he’d seen lain bare along the edge of that terrible wound. 

He didn’t fall.

He pressed his lips to the pale forehead - too hot - breathed in the stink of sweat and blood and the sharp medicinal scent of mint and kingsfoil. He lowered their joined hands, pressed it over that precious heartbeat, stilled the tremble because otherwise he wouldn’t feel the rhythm that meant _not everything is lost._

“I won’t lose you,” he swore, in a voice foreign to his own ears with something he couldn’t name yet. Something about loss and madness and love that moved his body when he could have slept forever. “I won’t lose you.” His oath from the battle rose to his lips. “Not today,” and then, “not tomorrow. Nor the next day. I will not lose you,” _brother, confidant, protector, friend, belo-_ , “Fili.”

Beneath the calloused skin of Kili’s wrist, Fili breathed.

_Hold on._

\----

“Get back in bed!”

Kili looked up and offered Oin a tired smile as the healer marched over to him, ear trumpet forgotten in the shock of finding his patient up and about. He knew there’d be a fight over his need to stay in bed, but he had no intention of losing it. “Bring my pallet here by Fili and I will,” he promised, speaking carefully so Oin could see the movements of his mouth. 

The resultant argument alerted Balin and Dwalin, who knew him well enough to not bother arguing over his need to be close to Fili. Balin dragged the pallet over and Dwalin moved Kili, taking almost all his weight with huge, hard hands that maneuvered him as gently as they would a babe. Then he folded his great frame beside Kili, and throughout the conversation that followed the inked fingers kept twitching out, almost-but-not-quite touching Kili’s shoulder. Kili wondered, with a surge of tired affection, if Dwalin knew whether he wanted to push Kili down and tuck him in or hold him up and act as advisor.

Balin sat as well, kneeling primly at Kili’s feet. He did reach out and touch, a steady hand on Kili’s ankle as if he was a boy of thirty and not a warrior grown and perilously close to the throne of a fallen kingdom. Oin fluttered around them all, checking bandages and muttering about food and incoming elves.

Balin told him, as Kili knew he would. He was one of the strongest dwarves Kili had ever known, though he hadn’t seen it until this mad quest. “I’m sorry lad,” and he was, tears in his eyes and in his voice and the trembling squeeze of his fingertips. “We lost Thorin two days ago. The elves did all they could, and Gandalf as well, but there was nothing to be done. His wounds were too great.”

The world cracked. 

It didn’t break, it wasn’t _everything_ but it was-

Thorin’s smile as he walked into Bag End. Thorin’s forehead pressed against his. 

_Stay here._

_Rest._

_Join us when you’re healed._

Thorin’s madness. Thorin’s greed. Thorin’s fear.

Black spots cluttered the edges of Kili’s vision,and he wavered.

_Fili, don’t be a fool._

Beneath his hand, Fili’s heart thumped, and his chest moved to take in another breath.

_If I die, I want it to be protecting Thorin._

Kili thought of Fili, willing to die for Thorin. He thought of himself, how he’d abandoned Thorin the instant he saw his brother fall.

He thought of Thorin, dead.

He couldn’t regret the decision.

“Was he alone?” he asked as Oin took his free hand and pressed a warm cup of broth and medicine in it. When Kili’s wrist trembled, too weak to hold it aloft, the healer wrapped his own warm hands around Kili’s cold one and held the cup steady for him. 

Balin and Dwalin exchanged a look. Dwalin looked away. Balin didn’t. “Bilbo was with him,” he said. “Thorin asked for him, in the end, and it took some doing, but a man found our Hobbit unconscious in the field and he agreed to come.”

Kili felt something like a smile tug at his mouth, and tension released in his chest. “Bilbo forgave him,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Balin didn’t take it as one, but still he said, “Aye, he did.”

Kili squeezed Fili’s hand. _It’s all right_ , he thought, hoping Fili would know what he was thinking somehow, as he so often did, _It’s all right. He was forgiven._

Someday, Kili would forgive him too, when Fili was sitting up, laughing and talking, fussing while trying to seem like he wasn’t and hoarding those slow, sly smiles of his for Kili alone. 

“Where is Bilbo now?” he said aloud. He would have to ask about Thorin as well, make sure his uncle’s body (blackness again, just on the edge of his vision, and his head swam, but he refused to give in) was well cared-for, that he was returned to the stone of the mountain he’d loved with obsessive devotion. But not now. He was too tired right now.

He listed to the side.

“Drink!” Oin snapped, and Kili did, watching over his and Oin’s hands as the healer answered him before Balin could. “He wanted to leave right away, but he had a head injury and couldn’t. The elves,” he sneered the word, and it seemed years since he’d been so impressed with Tauriel’s healing in Lake-town, “have given him a tent of his own, though he tends to wander about with Gandalf. He sees us now and again, and always asks after you.”

Kíli lowered the broth. It tasted foul, but it was warm, and he recognized the flavor from when he was a boy and broke his arm. It would help with the pain, but make him sleepy. When Oin urged him to drink it all, he shook his head and gently pushed the cup away. He couldn’t sleep now. He owed it to Fíli to stay awake and aware when his brother could not. “Bilbo is the finest person I’ve ever met,” he said, because it was true. Bilbo was clever and kind, more so than they had deserved. “And everyone else?”

“Doing well enough,” Dwalin said gruffly. “Gloin’s broken an arm. Some crushed fingers, bruises and injured ribs. But they’ll all recover with time.” He scowled. “Right now they’re all busy reminding Dain that you’re in here, and that Fíli lives, no matter what the elves say.”

Kíli tightened his grip on Fíli’s fingers carefully. “Why do they need reminding?” he asked, wishing that heartbeat was stronger, wishing Fíli was sitting up and talking. He was the heir, he was the one Thorin had trained, the one Thorin had buried under responsibilities and forgotten, as the years went on, to love. 

Fíli would handle this situation better than Kíli could ever hope to.

Another exchange of looks, and Kíli was tired of it. “Just tell me!” he demanded, and that his voice came out deep instead of petulant was as much a shock to him as to his elders. 

Balin straightened up, sitting back on his heels. The hand on Kili’s ankle disappeared as his cousin changed from tutor to advisor. “Dain has been in charge since Thorin died. Thorin issued a handful of orders beforehand, reminding everyone that Erebor belongs to his heirs and not to Dain-”

Dwalin interrupted on a growl. “There’s talk that you’re too young, that your age is more important than your blood, or the fact that _he_ ,” a fierce glare at the tent’s closed flap, “turned his back on us when we needed aid in our quest.” Kíli’s heart clenched, and the broth rose in his throat so that he almost gagged. 

_They’re talking like you’re already dead_ , he thought, but that kind heart beat under his thumb and he refused to believe it should stop. 

He’d made an oath. He would keep it. Fili would live. And until he was well, Kili would hold together the delicate web of their kingdom. 

_One day you will be king, and you will understand._

“It was a fool’s errand,” Balin sighed, “or so the lords believed, not only Dain.” He turned fully to Kíli. “He’s taken command because there was no one else to do so. You can’t have an army of dwarves stirred in among elves and men without someone to hold the reins. There’d be chaos inside a day. He doesn’t mean you harm.”

“Perhaps not,” Dwalin argued, “but he hasn’t been in here, has he, checking on his cousin’s health? And he hasn’t announced that he’ll step down as soon as Kíli is fit to be crowned.”

_Fíli. As soon as Fíli is fit to be crowned._

Kili couldn’t be king.

It had to be Fili.

“We need the appearance of strong leadership-”

Kili raised Fili’s hand to his lips, as he had done on the battlefield. 

Dwalin’s voice rose. “He will take control when he did nothing to gain it-!”

Heat pricked at Kili’s eyes, his hand trembled. He was so _tired._

“Brother! He brought an army, he fought the orcs-!”

“I don’t trust him! He went in the mountain, he saw our treasure-”

Kili winced at the word _treasure_. He imagined a violin in his hand, Fili’s utterly-average singing voice and laughing eyes.

The thrum of the strings in his mind took shape in the chest under his fingertips. The words came in a whisper. They trembled in the air, but they commanded silence and received it.

“Dain is a good dwarf,” Fíli said in a voice of crackling leaves and immovable certainty, and his chest moved and vibrated under Kíli’s hand, “but he is not a son of Erebor.”

_One day you will be king._

Kili’s sob of relief was lost in the tumult that followed. But Fili turned his head, slowly, and there were the blue eyes, and there was the smile Fili had tried to give him from the mud and blood.

_I will carry him if I must!_

“Fili,” he whispered, and the hand in his tightened minutely in silent acknowledgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The major character death warning was for Thorin. There won't be any more.


	2. Chapter 2

**[II]**

Fíli dreamed of forests.

He dreamed of gentle breezes and trembling leaves, white clouds and blue skies. He dreamed of turning his face up to the sun, soaking it in – knowing he shouldn’t feel this way, this peaceful without stone surrounding him above and below.

He dreamed of Thorin, flashes of his voice, lecturing him on how _open air isn’t good for dwarves._

But then he was alone in his dream-world, and he could enjoy the sky and the forest as much as he wanted.

It was lonely.

So he dreamed of Kíli, moving swift and silent over the grass and leaves. Too light on his feet for a dwarf, too slender, too fast, but beautiful to watch out here, with the sunlight on his hair and sparks in his eyes.

Fíli dreamed of panicked does bursting out of the trees, of the screams of rabbits and the splash of blood. 

Fíli dreamed of forests, and of Kíli, and of death.

**TWO**

_Kíli’s here_ was his first thought from the darkness.

The second was that if he was hearing Kíli’s voice, he had failed. He knew he was dead, had felt it, that understanding that everything was over, that his time had come. There had been so much pain, and he couldn’t move, and he choked on blood until his chest felt buried under mud and water. He’d seen a flash, felt it, and the pain had disappeared, so he _must_ have been dead.

Only now, he _hurt_. Everywhere. His mother had told him there would be no pain in the Halls.

His third thought was that he was alive.

The fourth was that he had to breathe-had to move his chest, though his mind screamed not to, that his ribs would crack open with the movement and he would waste this miracle and die all over again.

He breathed.

For an indeterminate time, all he knew was breaths in and breaths out and the pressure of a familiar hand over his heart. Then words took shape, and made sense, and the entire world cracked and fell apart and reformed into one where Thorin was gone and Dain was in power and Kíli was injured and he was being left to die by the elves of the Mirkwood.

 _I’m not going to die_ , he thought.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. He couldn’t see much, but what he did see gave him strength – messy brown hair, a slender nose in profile, dark eyes. _Kíli._

If Fíli died, Kíli would be left alone, unsupported until their mother came, which could be too late. Kíli didn’t have the temperament of a king, especially not while he was sick and injured. He’d always been not-so-secretly relieved with his position as the “spare.”

And then there were the elves.

_I’m not going to let those immortal bastards let me die._

Kíli wouldn’t deal properly with the elves. He was too interested in them. Always had been. 

To live, Fíli had to not only breathe (pain and pressure and terror that cowered beneath his breastbone), but talk. 

“Dain is a good dwarf,” he said, and was astonished by the sound of his own voice, “but he is not a son of Erebor.”

His words raised a commotion: yelling voices, a hand at his throat, cries of shock. But all Fíli made out in that first cacophony was Kíli’s voice, whispering his name. 

_Kíli. I swore I’d protect you until the day I die._

_That can’t be today._

The world sharpened into proper focus.

\-----

“Don’t move!” Oin warned as he knelt at Fíli’s side, ever practical as Balin and Dwalin just stood and stared. “You’ll open it all up again-”

Fíli didn’t listen because he _couldn’t_ listen. “Are they coming soon?” he asked, growling under his breath at how weak and rough his voice sounded. 

“In minutes,” Balin answered, kneeling as well. He looked pale and very old. Balin had always seemed old, of course, but in a timeless way. Now he looked delicate, stretched thin from pain and loss and worry. 

Thoughts raced through Fíli’s head. “Is it one we know?” _Is it Kíli’s elf?_ He didn’t ask, something spiteful and bitter in the thought that he should have been ashamed of. He should be proud that his brother saw beyond their uncle’s hatred of the elves, not this low, burning irritation at the thought of her. Only days ago – felt like years – he’d held his brother down and sang her praises in his heart as she mixed elf-magic and surgery to save his brother’s life.

He felt Kíli’s hand tense in his. He wondered how long Kíli had sat there, holding him. 

Balin said, “It is Thranduil. He took over your care after-”

He cut off, but Kíli finished for him, “-after Thorin died,” and his voice only shook a little. 

_Trying to make a good impression,_ Fíli thought. And then, ruthlessly, _And keep the most malleable heir alive, the one who made friends with one of his elves._

He didn’t like that thought. It felt too harsh. Kíli was open and friendly by nature; Fíli had always believed this a good trait, as long as he had Fíli to watch his back. 

But the king of Mirkwood _had_ left Fíli to die, and Fíli would show him that the heirs of Durin were made of stronger stuff than Thranduil expected.

When he spoke, there was humor in his voice that felt more like him than the dark thoughts circling his mind. “I have no intention of greeting the elves flat on my back. Kíli, help me up.”

“Don’t,” Oin ordered fiercely. “Fíli – your. Your _majesty_ ,” something in Fíli jerked and rebelled at a term meant for his uncle, “he’s injured as well. You both need to rest.”

“Which I will do,” Fíli agreed, even as he looked at Kíli in concern. His brother was sitting up, but he did look white and drawn, with a high flush of color on his cheeks that Fíli didn’t like. But he met Fíli’s gaze evenly and even offered a hint of a smile. “After I have seen Thranduil.”

“The elves left him to die,” Kíli gritted out, and his fingers tightened until Fíli’s ached. “He needs to show them he’s alive.”

Perhaps Kíli wasn’t so fond of elves after all.

“He might not be if he pushes it now,” Oin growled, but Dwalin was watching them both, something considering in his eyes.

_He’ll help me._

 

“Delay them,” Dwalin said. “Our king will at least be sitting up before they come in here.”

Fíli’s heart pounded in his ears: once, twice, deafening.

_Our king._

Kíli looked at him, and Fíli saw the widening of his eyes, the way his lips parted, even as Fíli fought to keep his own expression under control. 

Fíli had known since his thirty-first birthday that one day he would be king. One day, when he was old and there were hints of gray in his hair, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, a thick, full beard on his chin; when Kíli was a grandfather and Erebor was a prosperous kingdom again. _One day_ was a distant dream to be fantasized about or willfully ignored, depending.

It wasn’t-

_Today._

Kíli’s smile was wobbly and the skin around his mouth white, but he still gave a little nod and whispered, “You can do it,” as if they were children again and Fíli was curled up in a corner of the mountain, desperate to escape lessons, drills, and expectations for a few blissful hours.

Fíli probably shouldn’t believe him, but he did. 

Balin disappeared, returning in a couple of minutes with a simple chair of solid dwarvish make – the sort they’d used on the road, before settling in Ered Luin. Fíli only dimly remembered them. They collapsed for easier transportation.

“Sit here, laddie,” Balin said kindly. 

“This will hurt,” was Dwalin’s contribution before the brothers each took an elbow and pulled Fíli to his feet.

Fíli went pale as snow quartz and wavered, but Balin and Dwalin had a firm hold. The pain was excruciating, a burning fire in his belly and chest, and if either of them let go he would fall and shatter into a million pieces. 

But Balin and Dwalin wouldn’t let him fall. 

They lowered him carefully into the chair.

He bowed forward a moment, breaths fracturing, and beside him Kíli scrambled to his feet. He nearly fell, too, his right leg far too weak to support him, but Oin grabbed his arm and settled him expertly on his feet, grumbling every step of the way.

“Kíli,” Fíli hissed between gritted teeth. 

“I’m here,” Kíli assured him, shuffling forward, and Fíli found the energy to roll his eyes as the pain ebbed.

“I meant,” he said, forcing his head up, forcing a breath, “that you need to sit down and take care of yourself.”

Kíli’s brows lowered into a dark glare. Fíli nearly sobbed to see it, that familiar, mulish expression, Kíli’s stubbornness in the glint of his eyes.

_Alive._

_Alive._

Pain pounded with the blood of his heart, but he would survive it. Kíli was here. 

Slowly and carefully, Fíli lifted a hand and brushed his thumb along one fierce eyebrow. “Please,” he said, letting his hand fall to rest over the fluttering pulse in Kíli’s neck. He begged, even though a king does not beg, not even from the brother he would have died for, and wouldn’t have wanted to live without. Not even for-

“He’s here,” Oin said from the tent’s flap, before he stepped aside and opened it for the king of the Mirkwood.

\---

Thranduil seemed even taller here, with his head brushing the highest part of the tent and his need to lean forward anywhere else. He glided in, every hair perfectly in place even after battles and death and gore, and Fíli felt a surge of irrational hatred at the sight of that calm face, the haughty tilt of his head. 

_No concern for the affairs of mortals_ , came the spiteful thought, almost as an echo of the elf-king’s voice, though he’d never heard him say such a thing.

There was a rustle and a croak near the elf-king’s feet, distracting him a moment. A small raven hopped in beside him, ruffled her feathers and looked around. Thranduil’s sharp features twisted, and he moved as if to nudge the bird out of the way 

“Let her stay,” Fíli said. “We would renew our friendship with the ravens of Erebor.”

That elegant head jerked a bit at Fíli’s voice, the cold eyes flickering in surprise, and the hatred in Fíli’s heart became smug pleasure at eliciting an honest response from the ancient elf. The raven eyed them both with black, intelligent eyes before turning and leaping into the air in one graceful curve. 

It seemed dwarves weren’t the only ones who wanted to avoid elves.

“King Thranduil,” he said, and he cursed his trembling hands. But then Kíli moved beside him, and a soft blanket of furs was flicked awkwardly over his lap, hiding the hands away.

He didn’t acknowledge Kíli then, keeping his gaze on the elf, but he would remember to thank him later. It was unusual for Kíli to notice such things.

Thranduil tilted his head like a great deer, a wild thing startled in the woods. It reminded Fíli of hunts, pressing close to Kíli’s side and staring down his brother’s arrow at a great buck. “You . . . are awake,” Thranduil said, in a stiff voice that said nothing and gave nothing away.

_No thanks to you._

“Yes.” Fíli smiled, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt, nor as pained. He felt as if he was floating a little above the agony now, but it lay in wait along his ribcage and across his left shoulder. “You’ve come to see to my brother?” he asked, and his voice was mild, as it so often was (at odds with Thorin’s low growl, but hiding more), but his eyes were hard.

The elf’s eyes widened a moment before his long face grew impassive. “That was my intention. I did not expect to see you,” the pause was miniscule, probably invisible to someone who hadn’t been trained to listen and look for lies and weaknesses in others; Fíli wondered if Kíli heard it, “awake.”

_Disappointed, elf?_

Fíli didn’t usually like to see anyone uncomfortable, but he would make an exception for Thranduil, king of the Mirkwood.

Steeling his spine, Fíli lifted one hand from the furs and, keeping it as still as possible, motioned to Kíli, who sat on the floor, pale and sickly. “By all means,” he said, “we appreciate your assistance.”

He smiled. It felt strange on his lips, insincere and dangerous, and the pain-

-the pain dulled as his mouth twisted, as his eyes narrowed.

_He is only a little king, among elves._

The elf took a step back – no, not even a step, a slight shifting on one foot, but something flashed in his flat gray eyes that made Fíli afraid.

Just for a moment, but-

“Yes,” Thranduil said, “and if you will allow it, I and my healers,” he motioned to the opening of the tent, where a pair of elves in silver robes hovered serenely, “will see to you as well. You are in better health than I thought possible, and we would be of assistance to you as part of our treaty with your Lord Dain and Bilbo Baggins.”

_No._

Spiteful, hateful.

_Don’t touch either of us, you selfish, immortal animal._

Fíli made a small, involuntary sound and felt Kíli’s hand rest on his, too-warm. 

“Yes,” he said, over the shadow of his uncle’s anger and this strange, empty feeling in his chest (exhaustion, it had to be, exhaustion and injury and grief and not fear, not terror), “thank you.”

As Thranduil knelt, Fíli looked at his brother. 

Kíli smiled at him, pale and sick, but alive.

The elf’s hands were too soft and too cool against his flushed skin, and something in Fíli wanted to jerk away, but he hurt so much, even dulled like this, and he wasn’t so certain he would live without those hands on him.

He shivered.

Kíli leaned against his chair, just a little, and said, “I’m glad you’re awake,” in a voice that revealed everything, everything, even things Fíli couldn’t say out loud or even in his mind, things he realized as he bled to death in a field of war.

As immortal hands tugged his shirt out of the way to reveal his torn chest, Fíli leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Kíli’s. 

“Me too,” he whispered, as a breath was shared between them.

Then Dwalin’s hands were on his shoulders, pulling him gently back (away from Kíli, the flash of something in Kíli’s eyes like fear, but Fíli let him, so tired and he just had to stay awake) so that Thranduil could properly get to his wounds. 

Fíli refused to look away, met Thranduil’s gaze and held it even as the long fingers tugged the shirt away and unwrapped bandages that clung to his chest with dried blood and pus. He wouldn’t give the elf the satisfaction of not having to look Fíli in the eye after determining who would live or die in the line of Durin.

For once, his stubbornness paid off. Had he looked away, even for a breath, he would have missed it: the break in that passive mask, a moment caught in time before it slammed back into place: the great Thranduil, his eyes wide, lips parted, as he stared in shock at delicate new skin already covering the careful stitches over muscle and bone.


	3. Chapter 3

**[III]**

Kíli dreamed of ravens.

Ravens above the mountain, wings spread, his mother looking up, reaching out-

But these were not the ravens of Erebor and they flew on. 

His mother’s voice, hands gently fussing through tangles, _my little raven_ , his father’s laugh, clever fingers trying once again to braid his hair. 

The raven from the camp, watching him, dark eyes assessing-

Ravens everywhere, on his shoulders, on his forearms, leaning into his fingers as he scratched just right, sleek and soft under his hands, butting their heads under his chin, tangling in his beard as he laughed and sent them on their way-

**THREE**

Three days after he woke in the wake of battle, Fíli walked out of the healers’ tent under his own power. His brother followed just behind him, on his right, as befitted the heir of Erebor.

 _You’re the heir now_ , Kíli reminded himself, forcing his shaking hands to still by gripping the bow he had carried onto the field. After a lifetime as the spare (and unthinkable, unthinkable he should ever have any chance at the throne with Fíli standing between, even when he was a boy and they went through the stage where every other word out of their mouths was hostile), he found himself thinking of how to walk, what to wear, how to stand close-enough-but-not-too-close. 

In the end he kept an eye on Dwalin, who maintained a steady pace behind Fíli’s left shoulder and a sharp eye on Fíli’s back, most likely in case Fíli should start to fall. It was Dwalin and Kíli’s job to make sure he stayed upright, though Kíli was busy concentrating on not collapsing himself. 

If Fíli’s stride wasn’t as fluid as it should have been, only Kíli seemed to notice. Fíli kept his chin up and his shoulders straight, but his steps were awkward and heavy. It made Kíli’s heart hurt as he thought back to that day at Bag End, months-like-years ago, laughing and talking and Fíli’s confident strut. He’d drawn Kíli’s eyes that night in a way he had for the several months preceding, handsome and strong and alluring. Now he looked thin, and pale, and tired.

But Fíli was _walking._

And that alone was a miracle.

Abandoned for dead by the elves, Kíli’s brother was now up and moving. Oin was astonished. Maybe even a little-

No. Kíli must have been imagining the flashes of awed fear on Oin’s face as he cared for them in the safety of their tent. He’d been pleased with their progress, so far beyond anything they could have expected. He’d muttered that it must be the elves, wondered if it was at all possible for dwarves to learn even a portion of what elves knew.

They were escorted by the Company, all of whom looked worse for wear but absolutely beautiful to Kíli’s eyes. They’d met in the tent before Fíli left, worn and exhausted but all alive, every one. Fíli greeted each of them kindly, but he held his body stiffly and didn’t invite the sort of exuberant embraces dwarves were given to. 

_From the pain_ , Kíli thought, because he was still sore too and his injuries had been nothing against Fíli’s. He’d tucked himself close, just in case, as Fíli stood unaided in the center of the tent.

“What’s happening out there?” Fíli asked, looking to Nori first for an answer. 

Nori’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise – he’d had relatively few dealings with them, even on the Quest and despite being Ori’s brother – but he answered, “Dain’s soldiers are behaving themselves, as far as dealing with the elves and men are concerned. But they’re making noises about cleaning out the mountain and moving in, and Dain isn’t stopping them.”

“And the Men?”

“Dain’s promised them Bilbo’s portion of the treasure, and they’re none too pleased that no one’s in the mountain counting it out.”

Fíli frowned. “That wasn’t Dain’s to promise,” he said quietly.

Bofur answered, lifting his head and meeting Fíli’s eyes. Their once-laughing miner’s smile was long-lost and there was a bandage wrapped around his neck with mottled bruises peeking out underneath, but he would live. They would all live. “It was Bilbo’s to give.”

“Ah. And did he?”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Bofur’s face, proud. “Aye, he did.”

“Very well then. We will honor Bilbo’s wishes in this as in all things,” Fíli agreed. “We’ll make it a priority when we enter the mountain.” 

Bofur’s shoulders relaxed, and he bowed his head in obvious relief. _He must be regretting too,_ Kíli thought, _that we didn’t fight hard enough for Bilbo._

But Bilbo had forgiven Thorin. There had to be hope for the rest of them. 

“The elves?”

Balin began to answer, but Fíli shook his head. They knew what Balin thought; he wanted opinions from the others. 

“Helping,” Ori said quietly, “seeing to the injured, mostly, and helping to clear the dead from the battlefield.” 

Something cold passed over Fíli’s face, and Kíli watched as Ori shivered and looked away. Dori frowned and pressed against his younger brother’s side, protective despite Ori’s proud showing in battle. _I’ll tell him later_ , he thought, _I’ll explain about the elves._

“Very well,” Fíli acquiesced without arguing the point. “We’re going to walk through the camp, and I want us to stay together.” His voice was low and intense as he said, “This is _our_ mountain, and we’ll have every Man, Elf, and Dwarf out there know it.”

There was a soft murmur of agreement, of respect, and Kíli didn’t try to hide the pride on his face. This was his brother, too kind by Thorin’s estimation, but a leader nonetheless. Kíli had always known it. He loved watching others realize it out as well. 

Kíli watched as the Company – their friends, their family, the only dwarves willing to join their uncle on a mad quest to defeat a dragon and retake their homeland – arranged themselves almost instinctively around his brother, creating an honor guard of broken limbs, bandaged heads, and torn, bloodied clothes. He watched as Fíli smiled at them, soft and a little wondering, not at all cold, not at all pained. 

He took his place (Fíli’s place, behind Thorin) and followed his brother into the sunlight.

\-----

The whispers began almost immediately. 

“Fíli.”

“-Prince Fíli, Thorin’s nephew-”

“He was _dead,_ my uncle was part of the group that carried him off, his chest was cracked open and there couldn’t have been a drop of blood left in him-”

Kíli thought of the king of Mirkwood, of his eyes when he saw Fíli’s chest.

“-can’t have been as bad as they say-”

Kíli remembered Balin and Dwalin, startled glances, a hint of fear in the advisor, the warrior’s face closing off.

“-possible! Sliced clear to the bone and lying in the muck, and his brother not much better!”

Kíli shivered.

_Flash of bone and Fíli trying to smile at him, trying to speak, and only blood bubbling up between his lips._

His next step was a little too long, taking him too close, but he didn’t care. Kíli raised a hand and rested his fingertips, briefly, against Fíli’s back.

He couldn’t feel that heart beating, not from here, and panic squeezed at his chest a moment.

“-eard he was dead, thought Dain would be crowned.”

“Maybe it’s not him at all, who from the Iron Hills has even seen the lad since he was knee high?”

Kíli tightened his hand in the cloth.

Fíli looked back over his shoulder – and there was that smile again, tight and wavering at the edges, but there, in the darkening shadows under his eyes and the flash of dimples. “Walk by me,” he said.

Kíli felt his face warm. “You always walked here.”

Fíli halted and turned. The Company stopped as well, closing in minutely on some unseen signal as Fíli held a hand out to Kíli and said, “You’re not me. And I’m not Thorin.” Kíli’s hand slipped in his without conscious thought, wiping out that last time, blood on Fíli’s knuckles and smearing Kíli’s lips, their hands on Fíli’s heart when Fíli lay dying, abandoned by the elves.

 _Miracles_ , he thought, and the whispers made it more so. 

Fíli gave a little tug to pull him forward, touched their foreheads together a moment. His other hand rested, for mere seconds, against Kíli’s neck, sending a strange new shiver down Kíli’s back. “We have to be visible,” he whispered, “I know you’re tired. You can go in a few minutes, lie back down.”

“I’m staying out here as long as you are!”

“That could be quite a while.” His voice was warm with gentle humor.

“You’re _injured_!” to avoid saying anything else: to avoid _you should be dead_ or _maybe we were, I thought I’d see you in the Halls._

Fíli straightened, pulled away, started walking, but he held on to Kíli’s hand. His fingers felt too cold in Kíli’s grip, and there was a slight tremble in his strong wrist. “We don’t have time to be injured now,” he said, and Kíli knew it was true.

He would still have preferred Fíli in a proper bed, wrapped in furs with their mother singing songs about lost homes regained and bright new futures, but he understood.

Ori’s voice came from beside him. His childhood friend had taken the position beside Kíli, along with his brother. Dori was a trained fighter, for all his careful manners, and Dwalin had most likely put them there on purpose. “There were rumors,” the scribe said quietly, “that Fíli was dead.” His dark eyes flickered over Dain’s soldiers, who stood at attention when Fíli passed but fell to soft whispering as soon as his back was to them. “And that you were a lost cause.”

Kíli felt an upsurge of pride at this. “The elves thought so,” he murmured back, but, ah, this dwarf _king_ was so much stronger than the elves knew.

“They’re nervous of him. Of both of you, probably.”

Fíli answered before Kíli could, and his voice sounded unfamiliar and calculating, “Good. Then there will be less talk of making Dain king.”

\----

Dain met them with kind concern. Even in his heavy armor, surrounded by battle-scarred warriors, he was the same kind cousin of their youth, and he offered them chairs and food. 

Fíli, to Kíli’s surprise and secret regret, rejected both, requesting only water and inquiring immediately as to the state of the mountain. Dain acquiesced, though the surprise in his face was clear: he hadn’t seen Fíli and Kíli since before Fíli reached his majority, when Fíli was Thorin’s forgotten shadow and Kíli ran wild in Dain’s halls. 

“We’ve only been in the mountain twice,” the lord of the Iron Hills said. “It’s in serious need of repair, as you know, and Smaug destroyed the inner gates. It can be restored, with enough dwarves behind you.”

Fíli’s eyes narrowed over the cup in his hands. Kíli desperately wanted to sit down. “I see. Then it would be best that we establish ourselves within the stone.” He turned to the Company, standing in two lines behind him like soldiers awaiting orders. “We will go into the mountain tomorrow night,” he said, “immediately after the coronation. Pack your things. Balin, Dwalin, Dori, and Ori will remain here. The rest of you, go get ready.”

“Coronation?” Bombur asked, his gentle eyes widening, but Bifur took his arm and turned him smartly away, muttering under his breath in the ancient Khuzdul only his cousins and Gandalf consistently understood.

Dain studied him, surprise clear on his face. Dain didn’t hide his emotions as well as Thorin had, or even as Fíli did behind an affable smile. Kíli felt a brief surge of pride at the fact. “You want to have the coronation now? Your people aren’t here.”

Fíli’s eyebrows rose. “Enough are,” he said, “as well as leaders of Men, Elves, and the Iron Hills. Even Gandalf the Gray is here, and a representative of the Hobbits. Now is the _only_ time. We can have a proper ceremony when my people are back home, but they need a king before then.”

“Are you certain, Fíli? You . . . haven’t been well,” Dain said tactfully. Then, in response to Fíli’s stubborn jaw, he added, “Frankly, there have been rumors you were dead already.”

“Exactly why I will be crowned tomorrow afternoon,” Fíli agreed, and Kíli thought he was probably the only one who saw the way Fíli’s spine straightened and his hands tightened at Dain’s words. “And then we will move into the mountain, before there’s any . . . confusion as to allocation of resources.”

Kíli couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw disapproval on Dain’s face even as he said, “A wise decision. I’ll tell my troops to prepare for relocation.”

Fíli turned back to him. “That won’t be necessary,” he said pleasantly, but when he smiled there were no dimples at all. Kíli wondered if Dain would know the difference. “You are, of course, welcome to move camp to the proper base of the mountain, but the Company will be the only dwarves inside Erebor.” The blue eyes narrowed. “The dwarves who travelled Arda and followed secret passageways, the dwarves who heeded the call of their king,” not _prince_ , though Thorin had never been crowned, “and bathed the halls in gold, will be the first to reclaim the mountain.”

Dain stared at him, his brows beginning to furrow into the fierce glare Kíli knew from their uncle. When they were younger, Fíli had always wilted a bit below that look; later he met it with silent defiance and something not-quite-a-smile, as Thorin’s treatment of them changed (as Kíli was allowed to run wild and Fíli was expected to transform himself into Thorin and why hadn’t Kíli seen it sooner?). Fíli didn’t wilt now. He handed his cup to one of Dain’s lieutenants and said, “I have to see to my people, and my brother needs his rest. We’ll meet tomorrow about further arrangements.” 

The smile this time was genuine, and Fíli offered a slight bow to their cousin before settling all the expected pleasantries, gathering the remains of his party, and walking out of Dain’s camp.

He came to a stop on the far side of one of the wagons Dain’s army had brought with them. He pressed a hand to his chest and took a slow breath.

“Fíli?” Kíli asked, laying his hand over Fíli’s and pressing to his side.

Fíli’s voice came out as a growl, furious at his own body, his usual humor disappearing under the weight of responsibility and pain. “I want to deal with Gandalf today,” he snarled, “but I won’t stay upright much longer.”

His heart pounded in fury under Kíli’s fingertips. Above them, ravens called to each other as they circled in the air, ever close, but never close enough.

“Gandalf can come to you,” Balin said. Dori stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Fíli’s other side. “We’ll send Ori,” Ori nodded, “and have him meet us there.”

“You’re no good to us unconscious,” Dwalin growled.

“I know that!” Fíli snapped, his eyes flashing, his lips parting for a little pant of air. “I know. We’ll go now. But I’ll walk on my own.”

“Prince-” Dori tried, but Fíli would have none of it, and when had Fíli become so proud that he would hurt himself like this? It felt like seeing Thorin again, after the Carrock, refusing the assistance of the dwarves who loved him.

“I’ll walk on my own,” he repeated. 

And so he did, collapsing only once he was inside the flap of their tent, swearing and sweating in Kili’s arms. Kíli, barely stronger, went down as well, and then it was Dori and Dwalin’s cursing he heard as the pain threatened to steal the light of the world away.


	4. Chapter 4

**[IV]**

Often, Fíli didn’t dream at all. 

Sleep was elusive for him, chased away by a clutter of thoughts that pressed and danced and spun until he’d give up and sneak out of his quarters to run or train or talk to the night guard. He’d learned a great deal from those nocturnal dwarves: their endless watchfulness, how they remained vigilant in the quiet, how they kept time by the feel of the great forges beneath their boots. Because, of course, the forges never stopped, and there were those who worked too deep in the mountain to worry over _day_ or _night_. 

Fíli was in his seventies before he started winding his way into the stone, sharp eyes taking in the forges and the smiths. 

They had seemed so massive then, the forges, the mines. But they were _nothing_. Nothing.

Erebor-

Fíli dreamed of mines.

He dreamed of gold, flowing from one massive cauldron to another.

He dreamed of fire that burned eternally, of great mechanisms devised by their ancestors and maintained by geniuses of mechanics.

He dreamed of digging deep

Deep

Deeper

Until they found death, lying in wait beneath the stone.

**FOUR**

Fíli slept for hours, all of the afternoon and overnight, until dawn brought faint light and a slow chill into his aching body. Even when he woke, his mind and body didn’t work quite as they should, clinging to sleep or unconsciousness for too long. He spent an hour half-awake, floating along on a tea Oin practically poured down him and listening to the soft voices of his Company. Most had returned in the night, having very little to pack wherever they were in the camp, and had squeezed into his and Kíli’s healing tent. They didn’t speak of anything important, but chatted of cleaning clothes and darning, dreamed-of dinners and funny stories of dwarflings back home. But they all gathered at the tent’s opening, and Fíli’s heart warmed at the thought of these dwarves standing guard while he couldn’t.

Kíli curled up on his cot and slept, much to Fíli’s relief. If there was any chance Kíli would listen, Fíli would order him to stay close and warm and not move an inch until he was completely recovered. Unfortunately for Fíli’s daydreams, Kíli was as much a Durin as he was, and so would fuss, complain, and sneak out until he did himself more damage. 

“My stubborn Kíli,” Fíli murmured, reaching out a hand to touch the flush of color on the too-pale cheek.

“Fíli?”

Fíli shook himself slightly and straightened, allowing his hand to fall to Kíli’s shoulder as he forced his eyes to focus on the dwarf in front of him: Gloin. 

“It’s good to see your eyes open, lad,” he said, reaching out and helping Fíli to sit up again in the low chair. His movements were those of a dwarf who, while not a healer himself, had done his share of assisting those who were. “We’ve broth for you, with a bit of decent meat in it. You’ll need it to close those wounds you’ve reopened.”

Fíli eyed the cup suspiciously. “Has Oin had a hand in this?”

Gloin laughed, low and tired. “He tried, but we stopped him. There’s nothing here to make you sleep, though it’d be best for you if you did.”

Fíli knew that was true, but still he said, “After Gandalf,” as he took a careful sip. His hands didn’t shake and he felt a moment of pride at that.

“Suspected you’d say that. Balin’s off gathering him up now, with Bofur on his heels hoping to see Bilbo. So eat up while you can.”

Fíli did, though the food tasted heavy on his tongue and swallowing made his throat ache. Gloin watched him, the same Gloin who had known him as a babe and left Gimli in Fíli’s care, but there was something….different in Gloin’s face now.

Something awed.

“Kíli?” Fíli asked, something crawling up his spine at the expression. 

“Recovering,” Gloin said, “resting well; Oin’s thought all along he’d make it, and the elves sped his healing.” Gloin’s eyes flickered to Fíli’s chest. “Though you seem to have . . . healed even faster, without their assistance.”

Fíli thought of the shock in Thranduil’s eyes, how the ancient hands had trembled when he saw Fíli’s chest laid bare: the sewn edges delicately grown together, the skin smooth and free of any infection. 

“Mahal’s will,” he said, because what else could it be? 

Gloin hummed agreement and gave Fíli’s shoulder a careful squeeze. “May it be so,” he said, “but you must take better care of yourself.”

Fíli carefully chewed a hunk of meat – venison, he thought – and swallowed, forcing it down a throat that felt strangely swollen. “If this doesn’t last,” he said at last, turning his head and looking at Kíli’s face, slack against the pillows, “if infection sets in, and the elves give up on me again-”

“Lad-”

“Swear to me you will take care of Kíli.” He raised his eyes to Gloin’s, uncompromising. “I will have your oath on this. You and all the company. He is the last of our line, Gloin. He’s our people’s best chance for peace under the Mountain, if it can’t be me.”

_He’s my brother._

_But for months, maybe a year or more, he’s been more._

_He’s my best friend. He’s my confidant. He’s my-_

Gloin took a slow breath. “I don’t usually bank on miracles, my prince,” he said, “but I believe sitting and talking to you, hearing you try to put your brother first as you always do,” his eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled, and Fíli was forcefully reminded for a moment of Gimli as a boy, running and chasing after Kíli with single-minded determination, “is a miracle. A gift from our Maker. Don’t squander it by convincing yourself it’ll be snatched out from under you.”

Fíli didn’t waver. “Swear to me,” he said, in the voice of a king.

Gloin rested a fist over his heart. “I swear. We will all swear. Your brother will have the Company always at his back. But so will you, our prince.” He lowered his head momentarily. “King under the Mountain.” 

Fíli looked down and away, overcome. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Gloin sat with him in companionable silence until the entire stew was gone.

\----

Gandalf looked well.

Of course he did.

His smile, however, was guarded, as he greeted the prince and heir of Erebor. Fíli didn’t try to get up, choosing instead to talk to Gandalf from the low chair, forcing the tall wizard to look down and see what his meddling had wrought. 

He did order a chair for Kíli, who sat now looking angry and tired at his side.

“It’s good to see you before I leave,” the wizard said, and Fíli was pleased to see the pale eyes skittering away from his. “Bilbo is ready to return home, of course, and I have agreed to escort him.”

Fíli smiled. It was not a real smile at all, nor a warm one. It felt strange on his lips. “I am not at all surprised to hear you’re leaving,” he said, his tone gracious, but the narrowing of Gandalf’s eyes and the sudden willingness to look directly at him told Fíli his true meaning hadn’t been lost. “And you are, of course, free to go as soon as the coronation is completed.”

Gandalf frowned. “Your cousin spoke of your wish for a coronation,” he said slowly. “It seems. . . soon. Somewhat ill-advised.”

 

_You would have Dain king. Or is it Kíli? Whom do you think you would control best?_

Fíli’s false smile didn’t waver. “My grandfather and my uncle both put great faith in your advice, Tharkûn,” he said pleasantly, “and so I was raised to value it as well. But, of course, we both know,” the smile slipped away, Fíli’s eyes narrowed, “Thrain and Thorin are dead, as a result of your advice.”

Darkness seeped from the wizard’s robes, and his eyes hardened.

 _A tantrum,_ derisive, _but not the first I’ve seen._

He continued: “As would my brother and I be, thanks to your insistence that now was the time to retake our mountain, and your tendency to repeatedly abandon us on the road here. No,” something crackled in the air around the wizard, but Fíli didn’t stop speaking. He raised a hand. “I will go ahead with the coronation, despite your reservations, and you will assist with it.”

When Gandalf spoke, his voice echoed and Kíli flinched. Fíli’s hand twitched toward him in an urge to comfort and still him at once, worried that Kíli would give too much away. _“Do not so easily throw away the words of the wise,”_ Gandalf growled, and his eyes shone in the darkness as did the Arkenstone, and with much the same pull.

Fíli wanted to recoil. Oh, he wanted to, wanted to turn away from this power, from the fact that it hinted at so much more, but something held him still, held his spine strong and straight and his voice steady. “The coronation will solidify power here and prevent civil war. It will let your friends know that there is one in command under the Mountain who will defend the interest of dwarves.” He didn’t lift his chin, didn’t stand, didn’t try to make himself look _bigger_ or _stronger_. “They will also know that we’re willing to work together with them to rebuild what was lost.” He turned his head and smiled at Kíli, who was staring at him, wide-eyed. “There are those among our number willing to work even with elves.”

Kíli’s returning smile was uncertain, but Fíli thought he saw pride there as well. Good. Kíli deserved to feel proud of himself. His warmth was his strength.

“I want no part in this foolhardy rush for power,” the wizard said, voice deep with warning and danger. “You’re ill, and shouldn’t be making such decisions now.”

Fíli studied him, really looked at the ancient creature who had lived too long to think anything of mortal lives, at the sharp eyes and straight back. It was hard to imagine, now, the grandfatherly figure he had been when first they met, taking them on an adventure to reclaim their homeland, convincing them they could face a dragon and emerge unscathed. 

_Like an elf,_ he thought, _only more dangerous still. Elves ignore the troubles of dwarves and men; this wizard plays chess with them._

“We did what you wanted,” he said coldly, “and my uncle died for it. You will return the favor now. No one will question that I am king when I am crowned by Gandalf the Gray before Dain’s men, the king of the Mirkwood, and the new lord of Dale. If peace was your goal, you will have it.” His voice dipped, “If your goal was more death and disruption, then by all means, refuse me this.”

There was silence.

Silence, save the breaths of his company – held or startled, heavy or light, the crackle of energy around the old man who was no such thing, and the staccato beating of Fíli’s heart in his ears and his head. 

The dragon had been so much less dangerous than this.

 _I should have made Kíli leave,_ he realized. _If he kills me now, he’ll kill my brother too._

Fury rose in Fíli’s throat and splashed red across his gaze. He would take anger over fear.

But then-

-the wizard’s shoulders relaxed, the energy ebbed, and the cold eyes turned warm and sad.

“Yes,” Gandalf said, and his voice was soft, almost like a true elder. “Yes, you . . . it was not my intent, that Thorin should die. He was a good dwarf, who loved his people, who feared madness, and I led him to it.” For a moment, he bowed his head.

Fíli didn’t. He kept his head up, his hands in his lap, his gaze steady.

_I have seen your back too often to place faith in you now, Tharkûn._

“I will crown you,” Gandalf agreed. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Gandalf sighed. “Perhaps you’re right.” He offered a small smile. “Perhaps it is for the best.”

 _You will not take this mountain from my people, not through my death or through molding me into what you wish me to be_.

“Please ask Bilbo to come.”

Fíli turned at his brother’s voice. Kíli’s smile was tremulous, but he didn’t look away as he added, “We’d like to see him.”

“He came to see both of you,” Gandalf said gently, “but you were . . . resting at the time.”

_Dying._

_Dying._

“I’ll ask him to come. I imagine he’ll say yes.” Gandalf’s hand twitched, as if he meant to reach out and touch Kíli, but a sharp glance from Fíli, a low sound in Fíli’s throat, stopped him.

_You will not touch him. And may he never suspect you of wanting to control him, as I do._

Kíli was too kind for such dark thoughts, and Fíli thanked Mahal for it. 

Kíli sighed a little, relieved. There was guilt in the droop of his shoulders that twisted in Fíli’s gut as well. Bilbo was a member of the Company. They should have taken better care of him, should have defended him, and should have brought him here where he belonged instead of leaving him among elves and men who were so much bigger than he was, and who treated him almost as a pet. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Fíli said, and he knew it was too abrupt, but exhaustion clawed at the edges of his consciousness, “Kíli needs rest,” Kíli shot him a raised eyebrow, startling out a small laugh, “we need rest,” he amended, a lightness in his chest that seemed to push away the dark suspicion for a flash of time, “so we will see you in the morning.”

The wizard planted his staff and rose from the ground, towering over the Company. His voice was concerned when he said, “Your return to health is unexplained, Fíli, son of Dis. You would do well to treat it with care and keep an eye out for unexpected consequences.”

_Thorin is dead for listening to you._

“Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind.”

The wizard sighed. “I hope so,” he said, and he shuffled out the door like an old man. 

“Fíli?” Kíli asked.

Fíli reached out and held his hand. “It’ll be fine,” he said, smiling, because it had to be true. They would stand together, support each other, and make it so. “We’ll do what’s right for our people.”

_Without interference from Men, Elves, or Wizards._

\----

The Company wouldn’t leave them alone that night, not that Fíli would expect them to. Instead, he heard the familiar chorus of snores and snorts just outside the tent’s cloth walls and Dwalin’s steady breaths within. 

“He won’t let us out of his sight for the rest of our lives, you know,” Kíli whispered. Their pallets were drawn close together, and Kíli was curled on his side, eyes shining a bit in the dark. Fíli wasn’t ready to sleep on his side yet – the stitches along his ribs were tender and bruised, and the strange new skin delicate. 

Fíli laughed a little. For a moment, it felt like they were back home, in the tents and rooms they shared as children, telling each other stories into the late hours. “No, he won’t.”

“Just like he was always hovering over Thorin like a giant nanny of a shadow.”

Fíli couldn’t see the smile, but he could imagine it, and something warm unfurled in his chest. He wanted to reach out and touch, trace his fingers over Kíli’s face and try to put a name to whatever had changed between them out on the battlefield (deep in the dungeons, before that, lost in the woods, earlier still, in Rivendell . . . somewhere on this long voyage into danger and darkness). 

But he was king.

And they weren’t alone.

And all his life he had known his responsibilities: to serve his people, to provide an heir, to put the mountain above himself.

He couldn’t not touch at all, though, so he reached out and rested a hand over Kíli’s wrist, fingertips brushing the pulse point. “Thorin never complained, and neither will I,” he said, because Dwalin protected the line of Durin out of a deep, fierce love that had awed him, even as a boy.

Silence, long enough for Fíli to start feeling sleep tug at him, and then Kíli’s voice:

“Are you really going to be king tomorrow?”

Fíli’s breath caught at the words, at the _reality_ of it. When he spoke, his voice sounded cracked and dry. “Yes.”

“So no one else can take the mountain.”

“Yes.”

“. . .Do you really think Dain would try to steal it from us?”

_Yes._

_Yes._

_Riches beyond measure and the loyalty of our people-_

“I don’t know. But we can’t take the chance. _Our_ people wandered homeless for a century, not his.”

Fíli and Kíli were born on the road, belonging nowhere, their home stolen from them before they were born. Dain didn’t know what that was like, even if he was a good dwarf, he couldn’t lead their people if he didn’t understand them.

Kíli’s hand turned over under his, the calloused fingers tangling with his own. “We have to intern Thorin as well.”

“Yes,” Fíli’s chest hurt, but not from his wounds. “Yes.”

“In the mountain.”

“Yes. A proper tomb, as soon as possible. We’ll place with him his armor and crown, as befits a king.”

Thorin had never been king. He had clung to the slim possibility that his father was still alive, and then to the bone-deep belief that he could be a king to his people only in the mountain of his birth. But he had been Fíli and Kíli’s king, for as long as they remembered, in act if not in name.

“And his crown?” Kíli asked. “Don’t you need it?”

The thought of Thorin’s raven crown on his head, the one his uncle dug from the cursed treasure, turned Fíli’s stomach. He shuddered and his hand jerked, pulling Kíli’s closer. 

_No._

_No._

“We’ll think of something,” he said. “But not that one.” His people would recognize it, the men and elves would know it, the symbol of the ravens, but no.

Not now.

“Maybe there are others in the treasury,” Kíli said quietly, and he shifted closer in the dark until Fíli could feel the heat of Kíli’s body along his side. “There’s bound to be others in the treasury.”

Fíli thought of the gold, of Thorin walking over it, sinking into it, of Thorin’s eyes, of Bilbo, pale with terror as Thorin screamed and held him over the wall.

“No one goes in the treasury,” he said, “no one.”

_Too dangerous._

_Too precious._

_Too important._

_Too horrifying._

“All right,” Kíli murmured, “all right.” Then, teasing, “Maybe the elves can lend you one.”

Fíli rolled his eyes, but felt his chest move with a silent laugh. It made his heart hurt. “Brother.”

“Yes?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Of course, oh king,” Kíli teased, his voice already growing thick and heavy.

_King._

It was many more hours before Fíli joined his brother in sleep. 

Instead, he lay still and watchful, counting the cadence of Kili’s breaths in the deepening dark.


	5. Chapter 5

**[V]**

Kili dreamed of soft breaths and warm arms.

He dreamed of being a child on the road, tucked warm and safe between his parents, Fíli’s small arms wrapped around him.

He dreamed of their cottage teetering on the side of their new mountain, his own room and his own bed, but there was the sound of Fíli moving in the night: shifting under the covers, padding restlessly to the fire, tossing another blanket over Kíli.

He dreamed of his room in the mountain, when Thorin gifted Fíli his own quarters, and it was too-quiet and too-cold and he counted the hours until dawn.

He dreamed of the Quest, where there was no quiet, only soft voices and snores and complaints and shuffling and snorting ponies. He’d been tetchy and exhausted within a week.

He dreamed of curling up with his blanket over his face and roots in his ribs and his back to Fíli’s arm, focusing on Fíli’s breaths until they were all he heard.

Curling closer, wanting to reach out, wondering if he dared, would it reveal too much of this new, fragile feeling in his chest if he just-

Warm arms wrapping around him on a soft bed, the brush of lips across his forehead, hands that could kill with barely a thought gently stroking his back until he drifted off.

Kíli slept.

**Five**

Kíli’s hands shook as he adjusted the buckles on Fíli’s borrowed wrist guards the next morning.

Dori had spent the night taking apart the tunic Dain had given them, muttering to himself outside as he pieced it back together in a smaller size. The fit, when he carefully tugged it over Fíli’s bandages the next morning, was perfect. The leather pieces, though, came from Dain’s son, who wasn’t in his majority yet and so hadn’t grown into his height. He and Fíli were of a size, but they still took some maneuvering for the closest fit.

Dain’s son’s name was _Thorin._

“Kíli?”

Kíli shook his head sharply.

_I’m not wrapping my brother in a dead man’s things,_ he told himself firmly. _Thorin III is with his father, alive and well. It was kind of him to lend us enough leatherwork to make Fíli look presentable._

Hands rested on his, stilling them. “Kíli, you’re shaking. Do you need to sit down?”

“No! No, I’m fine.” He smiled. Fíli was pale still, a little white around the lips, but he still looked better-rested than he had for weeks. He knew his brother hadn’t slept well on the road, having woken up for his watches to find Fíli sitting beside him, staring into the dark. The warmth of Fíli’s hand on his shoulder became as familiar and comfortable as his own bed had once been. “Just nervous.”

Fíli smiled at him, a real smile, and Kíli suddenly realized it had been days – weeks? – since he’d seen it. Before he was injured, certainly . . . before the Mirkwood . . . maybe. Maybe at Beorn’s? There had been time to relax there but-no. He didn’t think so. The last time he remembered Fíli really laughing, really being himself, was at Bilbo’s house, surrounded by friends and food, before Thorin arrived and everything changed.

There had been a time when Fíli laughed a great deal.

“I’m nervous too,” Fíli said, his voice barely above a whisper but his eyes warm. “But we’ll get through this together, like we always do.”

Kíli felt his answering grin, pleased and a little shy. “Like that time we survived stealing Dwalin’s favorite biscuits?”

Fíli’s smile spread and there was the flash of dimples half-hidden by beard. “You went over the roof and I darted into the trees, and he couldn’t decide who to chase-”

“-just long enough for us to both get away-”

“-and rendezvous in the tree by the stream.”

Kíli laughed. Fíli didn’t, but he did keep smiling, and his eyes were soft and amused, not hard or frightened. 

_He’s been afraid,_ Kíli realized suddenly, _he’s been afraid every second since the arrow._

He thought of his brother, the heir of Erebor, who was about to be declared king before dwarves, men, and elves, _begging_ from the most odious man Kíli had ever seen. 

For him.

His head bowed under the weight of that memory, his forehead pressing to Fíli’s. 

“Kíli?”

“Thank you.”

A soft laugh. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for, but I think you definitely need to sit down.”

Kíli wasn’t sure what he was thanking Fíli for either. For begging? For defying everything he’d been taught for fifty years to stay by Kíli’s side? For holding him down and murmuring in his ear as an elf cut his leg open and drove away infection? For just-

_Being_.

“No, we have to finish getting dressed. You want to meet with Bard this morning, and invite Bilbo, and then we have to get to the mountain proper for your coronation.” Kíli straightened up, determined. “We can-”

A hand touched his face, rough fingertips. 

Kíli looked into his brother’s face. 

Fíli, the king of Erebor.

“Thank you, too,” Fíli said, and his thumb brushed for a moment along Kíli’s jaw.

Kíli felt his pulse skip, and then quicken.

He’d felt this way before. Back in Ered Luin, weeks before they set out, tucked away in an alehouse corner, watching Fíli laugh and talk with the friends they’d soon leave behind. On the road to Hobbiton, just the two of them sprawled close to the fire and no topic off-limits, save this one: this feeling. He’d wanted to ask, but had been too afraid, and now-

Kíli almost leaned forward, almost reached out. He felt Fíli’s breath on his lips, felt the pounding of his heart in his ears and wanted to rest a hand on his brother’s chest to feel Fíli’s, know if he felt the same way, if his pulse beat _I love you, I want you, I will always stand beside you._

But Fíli stepped back.

He pulled his hand away enough to show the loose buckles of the wrist guard, all business. “I’ll help you with yours, next, and we’ll see if we can talk your hair into holding a braid,” because of course Kíli was about to become the heir, and had to look as well as he could. 

And of course now was not the time to deal with whatever lay between them.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Kíli muttered, and earned one more low chuckle.

It was the last he would hear for a very long time. 

\----

Kíli was parted from his brother at noon, when Gandalf arrived and requested he and Bofur join him to invite the elves and Bilbo to the coronation.

Kíli didn’t want to go, and made his feelings clear, but Fíli wouldn’t listen. After the closeness of the night and morning, Fíli was barely looking at him now. They’d seen Bard shortly after breakfast, inviting the new “King of Dale” to attend the coronation with his children, and there’d been a change in Fíli that hadn’t gone away.

_A king_ , Kíli reminded himself. _Fíli will be a king._

Bilbo was happy to see them, laughing kindly when Bofur engulfed him in a hug and patting Kíli’s hand with his customary compassion. There was forgiveness in his voice and in his eyes that humbled Kíli. 

Dwarves were not made to forgive, and Kíli was sharply reminded of this when he was faced with the elf-king’s son and the redheaded captain of the guard, the one who had saved his life.

_But not Fíli’s_ , he thought, and anger curled into a ball in his throat. 

The interview was awkward but at least there was no inter-race incident to lay at Kíli’s feet. The prince – Legolas - was stiffly formal but not rude, and accepted the invitation on behalf of his father. Tauriel was more friendly, following as they left and touching Kíli’s shoulder with light fingers. 

“I’m pleased to see you well,” she said evenly, and her voice made him thinks of stars and sweet water, made the knots in his shoulder release for one blessed moment. “I . . . helped to carry you to your healers. You were badly injured. There were those who said it was impossible," her voice caught a moment, "that we would never meet again.” 

_A flash of memory behind his eyes, crying out in pain as she lifted him, reaching for his brother, Fíli’s eyes open and staring sightlessly into the sky, tears and pain and knowing the world was over and would never be right again._

He wavered on his feet.

Fíli’s eyes had been-

Long, thin fingers touched his shoulder. “Perhaps you should sit down,” Tauriel said, and part of him ached to take her up on it, but he remembered Fíli refusing a seat before Dain, and thought of the derisive eyes of the king’s son.

He jerked away from her. “I’m fine,” he said, more sharply than he intended, certainly more than she deserved for her curiosity and kindness.

“Legolas would not mind if you rested and ate-”

“He didn’t want to help us,” Kíli snapped, because it hurt to think of it, “when my brother lay dying beside me. Why should he offer me food now?”

Tauriel’s face fell, and then hardened as well at his tone, at his hands curling into fists. “Our healers have worked themselves to exhaustion for men and dwarves,” she said, “including for you.”

She was right. Even the Company had said as much. “I-” he began, but the words fluttered and fell away.

He looked down, ashamed.

He and Tauriel would have been friends, he thought, in another world. He’d wanted them to be friends in this one.

Her boots appeared close to his as she stepped forward, and he caught the scent of pines and fall breezes that clung to the elves even after they’d spent three days gathering the bodies of orcs and wargs and burning them. “I am pleased your brother is alive,” she said, quiet as a whisper but her voice was as clear as ever. “Your Maker is smiling on you.” 

Kíli lifted his gaze. 

Her eyes were distant, and very old, but kind. “I didn’t meant to-”

“Tauriel!” the elf-prince snapped. “Come away from,” he sneered, and his eyes were old as well, but cold and angry, “ _him._ ”

Tauriel rolled her eyes, and Kíli hid a small smile behind his hand. “His name is Kíli, as you know, and he’s just become the Heir to Erebor.” She smiled at Kíli. “I’m sure we will meet again, Prince Under the Mountain.”

When she left him, her feet made no sound in the scattered snow and ice.

\----

Kíli looked for his brother when he returned to the dwarven camp, sharply aware that the hours had slipped away from him and the small ceremony was almost upon them. But he was always a few steps behind – Fíli had finished eating, perhaps he was with Dori; Dori had completed Fíli’s clothes (but not Kíli’s, and trapped him for some time), he mentioned seeing Balin; Balin had sent him on to Dwalin, who had gone into the mountain with Nori in search of a proper sword and shield for the coronation; Dwalin had redirected him to Ori for a copy of the oath in Westron, as Khuzdul couldn’t be used at a ceremony with so many men and elves in attendance.

The search at least kept him from panicking as he realized more and more that this was happening.

This was real.

_Thorin is dead._

He looked to the mountain, where Thorin’s body was now locked away in a vault near the mountain’s surface. He lay in wait in his armor and his crown, surrounded by the skeletons of the dead and waiting for a proper burial. 

Dwalin had carried him there, with Bifur and Gloin as honor guards, as Kíli and his brother slept. 

_Fíli will be king._

 

_Eighty-two and king of a fallen kingdom, surrounded by allies who were enemies mere days ago._

_He’s going to need-_

_-everyone._

Kíli searched, but then it was too late, and Ori was checking over his clothes, brushing ineffectually at his hair, dragging him from the tent to the mountain. “He’s already there,” Ori assured him, “he’s been there for an hour, talking to Gandalf and the others about the ceremony. See, there-”

He motioned. 

Kíli followed the line of his arm, to the mountain, where stone met grass and Fíli stood in borrowed finery that Dori had fit to his body. Always distinctive, his honeyed hair caught the faint sunlight and stood out against the gray rock and white snow.

And on his brow a crown.

Heavy and dark, the sharp edges forming the wings of ravens.

“Ah, Kíli.”

_Thorin._

Fili reached a hand out to him, steady, certain. “We’re ready to begin, then.”

_We’ll bury him with his armor and crown, as befits a king._

Fíli smiled at him.

Fíli smiled, with Thorin’s crown on his brow, but it wasn’t-

_Wrapped in death_

Kíli took his hand in a daze.

“Fíli?” he asked.

_How-_

But his only answer was cold fingers closing around his own and pulling him forward to stand beside his king.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI**

Fíli dreamed of crowns.

A circlet of iron with scraps of Ereborian gold, lowered onto his head on the day after his fortieth birthday.

A heavy crown of gold and onyx, with the sweeping wings of a raven.

A crown of gold and mithril, curved like a helmet, too grand even for Erebor.

His stomach ached, fresh skin stretched too-tight, but Fíli slept.

And he dreamed. 

**SIX**

The coronation went well.

As well as could be expected, really, for an event thrown together in a day and a half, with only eleven of his own people in attendance. But he recited the oath smoothly, surrounded by the Company he would take over any army of dwarves, and an immortal being laid the crown on his head.

Their guests were arranged carefully: Dain, as their cousin, stood just beside the Company, and behind him the leaders of his army. To the right were Thranduil and his son, looking cold and distant, with a selection of their warriors; to the left, Bard, as representative of Dale, with his children and a scattering of Men. 

Bilbo Baggins stood with the Company, at Fíli’s request, looking awkward and exhausted, but somehow pleased as well. He could wear more emotions in a moment than some dwarves felt in a lifetime. Bofur stuck close to his side, with Dori standing protectively on the other; Dwalin stood to Fíli’s left, his eyes sharp and watchful. And directly to Fíli’s right, looking pale and ill, stood Kíli. 

Kíli would be properly crowned as heir when their people were home, in a grand ceremony as befitted the crown prince of Erebor. Until then, anyone who swore friendship or allegiance to Erebor also swore the same to Fíli and thus to Kíli. 

It would do, for the time being.

There was no great feast afterward, as food was scarce and jealously guarded even with the elves disappearing into their forest and returning with deer and boar twice a day. There were those from Laketown who ate rats, though Fíli hadn’t been lowered to that level yet.

 _Never will be._

At the end of the ceremony, the red-headed captain stepped forward from Thranduil’s contingent, and in her hands was a sword.

“My king bids me give you this,” she said formally, and knelt to hand it, not to Fíli, but to Kíli.

Fíli felt a flash of irrational anger as Kíli reached out and took it: Orcrist, the elven sword Thorin had used so well. 

But Kíli’s eyes were bright with sudden emotion as he wrapped his hands around the sheath. His voice only wavered a little as he thanked her, and his eyes didn’t linger on her sharp features, her ancient eyes; they focused on the elegant sweep of the sword.

He turned to Fíli and held it out. “My king,” he said, but there was fear in his eyes that Fíli didn’t understand, and he bowed his head over it and started to fall to one knee. Fíli’s startled hand on his elbow stopped him.

 _Please don’t bow to me,_ he thought, but he couldn’t give the words voice here, with so many watching him.

“You hold on to it,” he said instead, trying to smile. “It could work well as a warning for orcs. We’ll find a use for it.” He turned to the elf, and though he didn’t bow – kings of Erebor bowed to no one – he did say politely, “Thank you, Captain.”

Behind her, Thranduil’s son added, “We have your other…effects…as well.” He motioned to a wooden chest carried by two of his countrymen, carved with intricate flowers. “It should all be there.”

Kíli’s eyes light up, and for a moment an old, familiar warmth filled Fíli’s heart. “Your bow,” he murmured for his brother’s ears alone, and Kíli beamed at him-

Until his eyes flickered up, and he seemed to curve back into himself.

Fíli pressed his lips together and turned away. He was a king. He had greater concerns than a sulking heir.

\----

“Stay together,” he told the Company when it was all said and done, the proper uncomfortable pleasantries exchanged with Bard and Thranduil, “we sleep in the mountain tonight.”

“What about Bilbo?” Balin asked, looking across at their Hobbit. 

Fíli shook his head. “He wants to stay out here. Gandalf claims they’ll be heading back to the Shire without a week, and he wants to be ready. The elves,” beside Balin, Dori sneered, “have agreed to outfit him for the journey.”

It rankled, but in truth, they were in a better position to help Bilbo than the Company was, dependent as they were on the cast-offs of Dain’s army.

Balin was clearly disappointed, as were Bofur and Kíli, but they weren’t able to change Bilbo’s mind. The hobbit was politely obstinate, and bid them all a firm farewell when Thranduil rose to leave. Fíli, deep in conversation with Dwalin and Bombur about the state of the mountain, watched from the corner of his eye as Bilbo hugged each in turn, holding on to Kíli a moment longer than the others. Kíli, who had been kind to him from the start, despite his awkward pronunciations and dwarfish teasing; Kíli, who had joined Fíli in teaching Bilbo some basic self-defense on the long road to Erebor.

At last, the Hobbit came to Fíli.

His smile was so, so tired, but genuine, his ears twitching just a bit among his too-long curls as he said, “I’m happy you’re home,” with his typical understatement.

Fíli reached out and gently rested his hands on Bilbo’s slight shoulders. He’d lost weight on this journey – he looked more a tiny Man than a proper Hobbit. “Thank you,” he answered, for so many things. More than he could put into words.

Bilbo reached up and patted his wrists. “Hobbits don’t have kings,” he said, “but my mother told me stories of them. I think,” he looked Fíli in the eye, a long way from the fussing, fluttering hobbit they’d first met, “I think you will be a great king.”

When Fíli hugged their Hobbit good-bye, it came with too many endings: an adventure, a quest, a delicate friendship-

Innocence.

 _What we have wrought,_ Fíli thought, thinking of Thorin, thinking of Kíli, thinking of Bilbo.

Bilbo walked away from him, toward the elves, and Fíli looked up at the mountain of his ancestors, the huge effigies of his grandfather and great-grandfather. 

_What have we gained?_

He shook his head. “Gather your things,” he told the Company. “Don’t bring blankets. Leave those for Dain’s dwarves.”

They scattered to do so, though most had brought their meager packs with them. It was hard now to imagine them all that first day at Bag’s End, richly dressed in layers for the journey, carrying bags filled to bursting with personal items and supplies. Now they were battered and bandaged, dressed in Men’s cast-offs over worn undergarments. 

Fíli reached out to each, touching his shoulder as he passed, understanding his uncle’s words from all those months ago.

_I would take each and every one of these Dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills. For when I called upon them, they answered. Loyalty. Honor. A willing heart... I can ask no more than that._

_Could deserve no more than that._

They offered him their loyalty out of kindness and necessity; it was up to Fíli to truly earn it. 

Only Kíli stayed, staring at him, and he moved to take his brother’s hands in his own. 

They felt cold, his fingers too thin from lack of food and constant running from death. “Kíli?” he asked, because his heart hurt to see his brother like this. Kíli was meant to be a little too wild, a little too loud, a little too light on his feet and in his heart for a proper dwarf. He wasn’t meant to look tired and ill and a little…

Frightened?

Kíli’s eyes skittered over his face, then up. “You’re wearing Thorin’s crown,” he said, his voice shaking.

Fíli smiled gently, and touched Kíli’s cheek. He’d always liked to touch Kíli, always used it to calm him when he was a child. But there was something new to it now, since they’d curled together on the road, murmuring softly until sleep took one of them away, their breaths and arms tangling against the fear and the dark.

“It was the only crown available,” he said evenly, “and the Men and Elves recognize it.”

“But it’s _Thorin’s_ ,” Kíli argued.

Fíli felt a flash of irritation. “Which is why they recognize it,” he said, because it was only sensible. He wasn’t going to have anyone digging through the treasure in search of a crown, not now. Not until he’d decided what to do about it and the curse that seemed to lay upon it. He lowered his hands, let Kíli go-

_Shouldn’t cling to him so._

_Not as king._

_Not as king._

_One day you will be king and you will understand._

“Go get your things.”

“I don’t-” Kíli’s voice caught, “I don’t have any things.”

“Then help the others!”

Kíli’s mouth opened, but no words came out before he turned and walked away.

\----

Fíli kept an eye on Bard as he ushered his people inside. The new lord of Dale – if there could be said to be such a thing, lord of a pile of rubble - was a quiet man, even as his people turned to him for help; he had watched the ceremony with thoughtful eyes, and spoken the words recognizing Fíli as king of Erebor with soft-spoken dignity. He didn’t leave afterward, however, instead observing as the Company walked through the great gate. He stepped forward only when Fíli was alone, with no curious ears listening in. “The nights are getting colder,” he said without preamble. “Our women and children are freezing.”

Fíli turned and looked at him. He took a step back, as Thorin and Dwalin did when dealing with big folk, so that he could lift his gaze without tipping his head and allowing them to think him a child. “We’ll search the rooms for what we can find. Smaug didn’t interfere with the living quarters once they were emptied, and our textiles can last generations.”

Bard didn’t back down. Fíli wouldn’t have expected him to. He was in so many ways the opposite of the elves, direct and politely forceful where they were all sneers and hints and innuendo. “My grandfather told stories of going inside the mountain. He said it maintains a fairly constant temperature.”

“It does.”

 _Which is why we live there, and not out in the cold in huts like Men_.

“If our elders, small children, and their mothers could stay within the mountain, we could rebuild faster.”

Fíli was born on the road. He didn’t have a proper home until he was twenty, when the other dwarf kingdoms had given Thorin’s people a mountain out of pity. He remembered being cold, living in tents, never belonging anywhere. He remembered being a child tucked between his parents, a baby in his arms, as they huddled together under blankets in search of warmth.

He’d been barely more than a child when they found their temporary mountain, but he still remembered. He dreamed of it sometimes, on the road.

Fíli looked past Bard, to his children. They were strong and brave and homeless.

“I’ll consider it,” he said. 

“Night is approaching,” Bard warned, and he took a deliberate step forward.

_As Men do, trying to intimidate us, trying to make our heads tilt back and to startle us into stepping away._

Something sparked in Fíli’s chest, replacing empathy with warning.

“I will _consider_ it,” he repeated, in a voice that brooked no argument.

Bard argued nonetheless. “I helped you,” he said, “when you needed it.”

“For gold,” Fíli answered, his voice sharp.

 _That is why Men help us while muttering stories about dwarven stubbornness behind our backs. This reason and no other._ You should leave us. Take your children, get out of here.

_And go where? There is nowhere to go._

“The children-” he stopped, his mind running in mad circles though his face revealed nothing.

_Men cannot control the mountain. Men cannot control the king._  
“I will consider it. But now the halls are filled with the dead.” He paused a moment before he asked, not unkindly, “Is that what you want your children to see?”

It was Bard who looked away, and Fíli felt a strange sense of satisfaction at that. “No. They’ve seen enough.”

“Agreed.”

\----

The mountain felt like _home._

It wasn’t something he could put into words. He’d been raised on tales of the mountain, of course, told again and again that it was home. But somewhere in his heart he’d wondered if he’d feel it when he was there. Especially on the boat, with Erebor rising from the mist; the awe of the older dwarves had been an almost physical thing, painful and beautiful at once. But all Fíli could think of at the time was Kíli’s leg and how much danger they were all in.

 _Pretty_ , he’d thought, and that hadn’t been the right response at his first sight of their ancestral home.

Later, he’d finally stepped foot against stone, and it had been –

Well.

He’d been so worried about everyone, and Laketown had just gone up in flames. It was no surprise that he hadn’t felt as drawn to the mountain of his ancestors as he should have been. Then Thorin had sent Bilbo away, and then there was only fear and blood and pain.

But this time-

This time he pressed his hand to the rock, and something soaked into his fingers, a warmth that was new and yet utterly familiar at the same time.

_Erebor._

Balin led them to the royal hallway. The rooms were largest there, and since Smaug’s attack had been mid-day, stood empty when the dragon took the mountain. The apartments were dusty but serviceable, and there were enough for each family to have its own room. 

The sound of Dori and Nori’s gentle squabbling was almost comforting as it echoed down the hallway, Ori’s exasperated voice offering a counterpoint as he moved from room to room checking on the others. 

Fíli was directed to the room that had once belonged to his great-grandfather. Thror’s rooms were sumptuous to the point of _too much_ , the walls glistening with veins of gold, gold thread in the blankets. “Maybe a bit over the top,” Fíli chuckled to his brother, who of course was sharing the room. He didn’t want anyone staying alone yet, especially Kíli. He’d had to work to keep Oin from ending up at the foot of one of their beds, fussing away, as it was. 

Kíli gave him a small smile and moved off to inspect the baths. Bombur was of the opinion that, with the great forge active, there should be no problem with hot water. Dwarven design lasted millennia, and wouldn’t be greatly affected by a few decades of disuse. 

The nature of the mountain’s design was also such that it hadn’t become terribly dusty or stuffy in the apartments. Keeping the rooms warm and vented was too important not to be a part of the careful manufacture of living quarters. The bedding needed a few good whacks, but other than that was in good shape. There were two beds, one in the main sleeping chamber and another in a smaller side room. Fili stood between the two, considering if he dared let Kíli sleep alone or if he should insist they stay together. It’d be much easier to keep an eye on him if they shared the bed, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time they’d done that. Kíli looked so _ill._ Fíli wanted to keep his hands on him, feel his breaths, make sure his heartbeat was strong and steady. 

“Ki-”

_Can’t be so dependent on one dwarf._

_Especially Kíli-especially without an heir-without-_

An image caught Fíli’s attention from the corner of his eye.

A flash of black and gold, a hint of mithril.

He froze.

Above the chest where Thror’s clothes were still folded neatly away hung a mirror. It was a masterpiece of real glass and mercury, the image sharp and clear and utterly unlike the bronze mirrors they’d carried on the road. The edges were worked in delicate gold filigree, glinting in the light of the fire they’d laid as soon as they walked in. And in the center-a face.

Fíli’s face.

His Durin-blue eyes, his straight nose (like Thorin’s, more like Thorin than people knew because of his coloring), the fall of honey-brown hair, and on his brow-

A heavy crown, sweeping ebony bringing forth the suggestion of a raven.

_We’ll think of something. But not that one._

_We’ll bury him with his armor and crown, as befits a king._

His own voice, his own voice, and this-

Bile rose in his chest and pushed at his throat as he stared at himself in the glass. 

He didn’t remember-

_Reaching out, touching Thorin’s face, cold and hard in the flickering light of the torch, Thorin’s hair almost brittle against his fingertips as he slid them under the edge of the crown and lifted it off._

He gagged, laid a hand over his mouth, his vision distorting with tears.

_Didn’t say a word, turned and walked away with the crown in his hand, black strands caught in the points._

A sharp _crack_ resounded through the room as the crown struck rock and Fíli fell to his knees, hands tightening over his mouth as if to muffle a scream that trembled silently on his tongue.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII**

Kíli dreamed of being a child.

He dreamed of the road, and ponies, of huge trees and big Men and hiding behind his mother’s skirts

He dreamed of the mountain, opening up the mines,

-burrowing down into the rock –

The steady rocking of the miner’s bodies as they struck iron

-veins of gold-

And of long nights laughing with his brother in the next bed

-love, curled around him in the dark and cold-

Until their mother laughingly scolded them to let her sleep.

**SEVEN**

Kíli heard the dull crack of metal on stone and moved instinctively, hands whipping out the knives stuck in his belt (placed there by Fíli each morning, his eyes dark with concern) as he rushed around the doorframe. If anyone tried to lay a hand on his brother, they’d-

Fíli was alone, but he was falling, curling into himself with his hands over his mouth, his knees hitting the stone hard as he gagged into his palms.

“Fíli!” 

Kili threw himself to the ground beside his brother, reaching out with suddenly trembling hands for Fíli’s shirt and pulling on it, shoving at the thick material of the vest and pulling at the worn fabric beneath. 

“I knew it was too much!” he muttered as he tugged. “You were _hurt_ , Fíli, there were stitches, you have to lie down, you have to be careful-”

But no blood stained his fingers or the bandage wrapped expertly around Fíli’s ribs, even as Fíli’s breath came in harsh little pants under Kíli’s pressing hands.

“Fíli?” His touch gentled, resting against bandage and skin. “What’s wrong?”

Fíli didn’t answer at first, didn’t move. His eyes were wide and pale, the color leeching from his face. What if something was wrong _inside_ , if he’d torn something? Gandalf had warned them to be careful of miracles- 

“Lean on me,” he said, wrapping an arm around Fíli and shifting against his side. “Come on, we’ll get you to bed and then I’ll go fetch Oin-”

“No.” Fíli’s voice was rough, as if he’d been screaming, but he hadn’t made a sound. Even his desperate breaths were silent, sucked in through parted lips. “No, Kíli. I’m fine.”

“Fine?!”

“I just-” Fíli’s voice caught, and that was enough to send a bolt of fear down Kíli’s back. Fíli was always certain of himself or at least faked it extremely well. It was the first survival skill he’d gained after being declared Thorin’s heir apparent. “I’m just tired, Kíli, it’s fine.”

He tried to smile.

It was even worse than the one from the battlefield, stained with blood. That one had been horrible, and painful, but it had been real. It had been Fíli. This-

This was something else entirely.

“There’s something wrong,” he argued. He meant to sound gentle but his voice came out sharp with fear. “You don’t generally roll around on the floor crying.”

Fíli’s hand darted up to touch his face, slid along the wet trail of tears from his eyes as if he didn’t expect them to be there. His fingers were steady. “I’m well,” he insisted, “I just haven’t slept. We both need sleep.”

He jerked himself from Kíli’s grip and pushed to his feet.

For a moment, Kíli knelt there, frozen, his hands reaching out for a pulse that was out of reach and moving further away.

He felt everything in that moment: frustration at Fíli, for so clearly lying to him; helplessness, because he didn’t even know where to begin; sorrow, for the loss of their childhood closeness (once, once, Fíli told him everything, or seemed to – at least he listened to everything, at least he didn’t _lie_ ); confusion, at the sight of Thorin’s crown on the floor, golden hair tangled with black along one wing tip. 

He reached out and touched it.

Cold and hard, nothing like living blood under skin, beating through Fíli’s chest. Nothing like life and laughter and his overprotective big brother.

Fíli stripped layers as he made his way to the bed. “I’ll bathe in the morning,” he said. “We both need rest tonight.”

_Don’t decide for me!_ The brother in Kíli demanded.

_Don’t lie to me!_ The heir in Kíli roared.

_Don’t push me away_ , a new, secret part of Kíli whispered, and it was this phrase that brought with it a wave of fear, a vision that flashed behind his eyes:

_Fíli, King of Erebor, straight and strong before a prosperous kingdom._

_Their people, bowing before him, speaking his name in hushed tones._

_His lips, curved into that false smile._

_And his eyes-cold and distant._

_Like Thorin’s._

_But so much worse, for Kíli’s knowledge of their warmth and humor._

The beat of Kíli’s heart thudded in his ears, deafening him to the soft sounds of Fíli getting ready for bed.

_If I let him go now,_ Kíli thought, _I could lose him forever._

He pushed to his feet and rushed forward, reaching out, catching Fíli’s shoulders. Without the extra layers of his hastily altered clothes, Fíli seemed smaller still, too-thin from their days sleeping and the broths he’d lived off for the last week (less, it had been such a short time since he’d been whole and alive and strapping Kíli into armor with eyes like thunder). 

“Let go-!”

“I can’t. Fíli.” He couldn’t, something in his heart and something in his chest, and this bone-deep knowledge that this moment could make or break them.

Kíli knelt.

From some instinct that rose inside him, Kíli knelt before his brother, before his king, before his _everything_ , and gathered Fíli’s hands (too cold, too cold) to press them to his forehead. 

“Something’s wrong,” he said quietly, staring at Fíli’s feet, clad in warm socks but his boots abandoned at the foot of the bed. The words sounded strange on his tongue, like a ritual he had never learned but only knew in his bones, in his tongue. “I would help you, my king. I am your helpmeet and your heir. I would share your burdens, if I can, that it might lighten yours.”

Fíli’s hands tightened. “Kíli. Please-”

Kíli felt tears rise in his eyes. Shame? Hope? Exhaustion? His chest ached.

“Please don’t,” Fíli begged, quietly, his voice trembling as it did when he, a future king, begged that disgusting man in Lake-town: something like shame and something like desperation and something like a sharp, proud defiance because princes were not meant to beg, but Fili was more than a prince. 

“I want to help you!” Kíli lifted his eyes, glared into his brother’s. _Since we were children and I followed in your footsteps._

A smile, shaky and damp – another tear, tracking along the edge of Fíli’s lips – but real, real. “I know. I know. But please.” He tugged. “Please not on your knees. Not you.”

Kíli blinked.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. He was instantly taller of course, looking down into Fíli’s eyes, tracing his familiar and beloved face. He didn’t let go of Fíli’s hands. 

He didn’t know what to say, so he blurted: “You’re hurting.”

Fíli hesitated. “My wounds ache,” he admitted, “but they’re closed, as they should be.”

“You fell,” Kíli pressed. He wanted to ask about the crown, but he didn’t. It was metal and stone; Fíli was breath and life. 

Fíli stared at him. 

His eyes moved over Kíli’s face, slowly taking him in. It was a strange feeling, to be studied so by someone who should have known every hair in his beard and every flick of his lips, but not . . . not a bad one. 

He felt as if Fíli _should_ look at him like this.

As if maybe they’d watched each other this way for some time (weeks? months?) and not realized it. 

_I love you_ , he thought, and it was both obvious (redundant, he’d said it before, hundreds of times) and a revelation (never like this) at once. 

_How long?_

“The crown,” Fíli finally said, his eyes on Kíli’s collarbone. He slid one hand free of Kíli’s and slowly traced it along Kíli’s arm, across his shoulder, to his throat. “I don’t . . .” three fingers settled against Kíli’s neck, the touch light and warmer now, not so cold. Fíli’s throat moved as he swallowed. “I don’t remember deciding to put it on. I don’t remember . . .” He lifted his gaze, clear and determined, to Kíli’s, and Kíli knew his brother had just accepted something between them.

_I am your helpmeet and your heir._

“I don’t remember going to get it. But I must have.”

Kíli’s heart pounded. “You could have sent someone-”

“I don’t remember that, either. Who would I have sent? …Dwalin? Balin? They would have refused.”

Kíli wasn’t so sure of that, but he didn’t say so. He rested his free hand against Fíli’s chest. It moved in pounding rhythm, hitching now and then. 

_He’s afraid._

“You’ve been exhausted,” he said, trying to sound as firm and reassuring as their mother, though in truth he was afraid, too. He didn’t know what to say. He was the one who chafed under everyone taking care of him; not the one who took care of others. “Get some sleep. Maybe . . .” he faltered. “Maybe it will come to you in the morning?”

A quirk of the lips, a hint of a dimple, but the skin around Fíli’s eyes was tight with tension. “Maybe.” He pulled away.

Kíli didn’t want him to.

Kíli wanted-

Fíli.

Whatever had moved his tongue moments before to speak with elegance and grace abandoned him in the face of Fíli pulling away from him. He was only himself again, only Kíli who spoke without thinking, when he blurted, “I want to kiss you.”

Fíli froze.

“Please.” 

He was pleading.

He didn’t care.

“If – if you want to kiss me too,” he amended, because Fíli would do it to protect him from disappointment, if Kíli didn’t put a stop to it. “Only if you want to. But if you do. Please.”

_I love you._

Fíli kissed him.

The broad hand returned to his neck, thumb along his jaw, as Fíli pushed up and he leaned down and then-

A brush of lips, shared breath, the scratch of beard along his jaw that startled a soft laugh out of him.

When Fíli smiled at the sound, Kíli felt it against his mouth and pressed forward for more.

Fíli’s tongue flickered against his, just once, as they parted, and Kíli shivered. 

“We should sleep,” Fíli said, and his eyes were peaceful now, as he looked up into Kíli’s face.

“Right,” Kíli agreed, “sleep.” 

He would wonder, later, if it should have felt awkward getting into bed that night. They’d slept together, of course, but always as brothers, squabbling over covers and zealously maintaining a strip of privacy down the bed’s center, grumbling if their backs so much as touched. 

Now they reached for each other, Fíli’s hands at Kíli’s waist, Kíli curling into him, figuring out arms and elbows and knees until they were tangled together under the old blankets in their grandfather’s bed.

“I love you,” he said aloud, wondering if Fíli would hear what he really meant – how he meant it, how it was different and new and delicate – in Kíli’s voice.

He burrowed a bit into his brother’s shoulder. Fíli smelled of medicinal herbs, sweet, and a hint of perfumed oil that had anointed the edge of the crown as Gandalf laid it on his head.

_Thorin’s crown._

_A crown for the dead._

Kíli shivered.

He was so tired.

He wanted to hear Fíli’s answer, dreaded and anticipated it with baited breath, but he was so tired, every muscle releasing suddenly, a slow ache from his leg and back, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

The words chased him to sleep and wiggled into his dreams:

“I’m afraid to love you.”

He didn’t think he was meant to hear them.

\----

The royal quarters had shafts cut deep in the stone to the surface, letting in light without a fire. Balin had said it was a safety feature, so the royal family wasn’t as dependent on candles as the rest of their people. Kíli appreciated it because when he woke the next morning, his body still heavy with slumber, he could see Fíli in the bed next to him.

His brother was still asleep, on his side with a protective hand on Kíli’s stomach. That hand was warm and familiar – they’d shared a bed hundreds of times over the years, and Fíli always liked to have a hand on Kíli to make sure he didn’t get away (he could never live down that sleepwalking tendency from his twenties). But there was something new to it, too – in looking at Fíli’s resting face, in letting his gaze linger on Fíli’s mouth with the memory of how it felt against his, in knowing he could kiss Fíli again, like he’s wanted to for longer than he knew. 

“I love you,” he whispered, and grinned as Fíli’s wonderful nose crinkled in his sleep and the king of Erebor snuggled more into the pillows. 

Kíli thought that was an excellent idea. He pulled the blanket back up to his shoulder and curled up as well.

He opened his eyes again at a low gurgle from the foot of the bed.

A raven perched by his ankle, watching him with dark eyes. “Oh,” Kíli murmured, because of course he had been raised on stories of the ravens, and had seen Roäc, the great leader of Erebor’s ravens, welcome Thorin into the mountain, but he had never been so close to one himself. This one was not as large as Roäc, more the size of a wild raven, and much sleeker and black. It tilted his head at him.

Kíli froze, not wanting to frighten it away. But the raven didn’t appear to be intimidated at all. It made the sound again, that low gurgle, then threw back its head and gave a series of knocking clicks.

_A dominant female_ , Kíli thought, though he didn’t know when he’d learned such a thing.

Kíli sat up with infinite care. The blankets pooled in his lap, and Fíli made a soft noise in his sleep, but his brother didn’t wake as Kíli held his hand out to their sleek visitor.

The raven hopped forward, gurgled again, and nipped the end of his finger with something like affection. 

“Consort,” she croaked, and Kíli didn’t know if he would ever get used to a bird speaking.

He laughed softly. “No, I’m the heir, not the consort,” he whispered. He should probably wake Fíli, introduce them properly, but something stayed his hand and lowered his voice. “My name is Kíli.”

“Consort,” the bird clicked back, hopping forward and then back. “We remember you.”

“I’ve never-”

Fíli shifted, his eyes slowly opening. 

The raven called once, loudly, and launched herself into the air in a flash of glistening wings. By the time Fíli murmured a sleepy good morning, she was gone through one of the same vents that let in light and air. 

Kíli stared after her for a long moment before looking down into his brother’s sleep-clouded eyes. 

“Get some more sleep,” he said, sliding back down, reaching out and pressing close. “We don’t have to be up yet.”

“Too much to do,” Fíli argued, but his eyes were fluttering shut again as he wrapped an arm around Kíli’s waist.

Kíli kissed him, felt a smile under his lips as Fíli leaned in for another. “It can wait a little while.” 

He wanted this, just a little longer, before facing the crown on the floor and the questions on the lips of their Company.

He tucked his eyes into Fíli’s shoulder and slipped easily back into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII**

Fíli dreamed of armor.

He dreamed of his first: fashioned for him by royal hands – Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Dis – as an heir’s should be. How heavy it felt, weighing down his shoulders.

He dreamed of Kíli’s first: how he’d been allowed to help mold it, to shape the breastplate and the shoulder guards, the blow of the hammer resounding up his arm until it shook when he stood still.

He dreamed of armor made of gold, ceremonial armor, Thorin strapping him in, a flash of affection, their foreheads touching – he’d forgotten how that felt –

He dreamed of feather-light armor lined with mithril, a gentle voice teasing out a laugh as hands double-check the buckles

Of armor lined with lead

Or armor lined with iron

Of armor made of leather

Of how none were infallible-

Blood seeping in the cracks-

Fíli dreamed of pain. 

**EIGHT**

Fíli woke in a proper bed, under proper blankets, with his brother in his arms.

_Kíli._

Gently, he pulled away, trailing his fingers over Kíli’s ribs. They were bound, like Fíli’s, but higher up. His chest was almost completely swathed in them. 

“What happened to you?” he murmured. He couldn’t remember. He’d lost consciousness on the battlefield, convinced he was dead. Then he’d woken up, and Thorin was gone, and there was so much to _do-_

Kíli made a soft noise and snuggled down into the blankets, looking more like the wild young thing Fíli remembered than the fierce adult he’d become sometime in the last decade, the last few months. 

In truth, though, he was both, and that made Fíli want to pull him closer, wake him up, kiss him and-but at the same time, he wanted to let Kíli sleep, lock him away from everything that needed to be done. Let him cry – cry for Thorin, cry for themselves. 

_I want to kiss you._

_Please._

He’d never heard Kíli beg like that before. Kíli hadn't been trained as rigorously as Fíli was, but he still knew that a prince of Erebor didn't lower himself. He’d certainly never imagined Kíli _kneeling_ like that. It had felt . . . terribly wrong. Kíli was meant to stand by his side, not kneel at his feet.

_I am your helpmeet and your heir._

He pressed his lips to the furrow between his brother’s brows – so fierce, he must have been dreaming. A brush of his thumb as well and they loosened and lay calm. 

Fíli’s body responded, warmth in his groin, hardening, and he felt himself flush with a strange mix of embarrassment and desire. He could wake Kíli up if he wanted; Kíli was always hilarious to watch waking up, mumbling and grumbling to himself, trying to curl into the pillows. He could pull him close, and kiss him again, and see what their bodies would do – if they could wipe out all the sorrow together and replace it with something else, something delicate and new with roots going back to the day Kíli was born.

_It wouldn’t be right._

_I have responsibilities._

_We need-_

 _We need an heir._

Fíli’s eyes burned, and he cursed the weakness.

He couldn’t afford to be in love with his brother. It wasn’t _fair_ to be in love with his brother. 

_Get up._

He didn’t. Not immediately. He gave himself a few minutes to listen to Kíli’s steady breathing.

In the end, he kissed Kíli’s forehead, his cheek, and, greatly daring, his heart pounding, his lips. “Stay asleep,” he whispered, and gently pulled away to start the day.

Kíli curved into the warmth he left behind and murmured softly of dreams and rest.

\---

They laid Thorin to rest the following evening, as the sun painted the sky beyond the mountain in shades of red and orange and Bofur played a sweet song of death on his clarinet. 

Bombur and Bifur spent two days finding a way to safely open the royal tombs, so Thorin could be interned with his ancestors. Dwalin tenderly moved the coffin from the small cave where they’d stored it, refusing help from all members of the company save Fíli and Kíli. Balin led the procession, his eyes bright with tears and his voice thick with grief.

Kíli wept over the tomb.

Fíli was somewhere beyond tears. His hands were steady and his eyes dry as they lowered the coffin into place, into one of the pre-cut indentations in the stone. His ancestors had planned well, and there were places here for two dozen kings of Erebor and their consorts, should they have one.

Thorin would rest alone, with no consort, or even his parents or grandfather by his side. Only Thror’s wife, his grandmother, went before him in death. 

He would be alone until Fíli died, and was laid to rest beside him. Even Fíli’s parents wouldn’t be allowed a place in the Hall of Kings, though his mother acted as Regent while Thorin was away.

Fíli held the great blade Orcrist in his hands a moment. Thorin had killed dozens of orcs with it, and it still held a keen edge. 

_An elf blade._

It seemed almost to hum against his fingers. 

Fíli gave it to his brother, who took it in delicately trembling hands.

Kíli laid it on the stone, as they’d agreed. There would be a proper effigy later, based on Ori’s careful sketches, when the sword would rest in the stone hands, ready to warn their people of orc attacks. For now they would leave it here, with his body.

Kíli’s fingers lingered on the pommel for a long moment and his shoulders shivered with repressed tears. Fili wanted to reach out to him, wanted to touch him, a stroke of his hair, a press of their foreheads. 

Instead, he rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder, a poor support against the quiet tears of their Company, who were all Fíli would allow in for the internment. Even Dain would have to wait his turn.

_This is for those brave enough to retake the mountain. Not for those who hid away in their own._

 

Kíli turned toward him on his own, curved down to bury his face in Fíli’s shoulder as he took a little gasp of air. His strong Kíli, who hadn’t cried since they were children, who looked on the bright side with dogged determination, wept silently into fur and cloth.

Fíli knew he should have been crying.

Thorin had been more than his king. He’d been his uncle, his teacher, a source of stories by the firelight and songs of what they lost, of practical gifts and rare smiles and pressure, pressure, pressure. He was a million memories tangled in every aspect of Fíli’s life.

But he didn’t weep.

He didn’t know why.

“The crown,” Kíli murmured, his voice muffled in the fall of Fíli’s hair, before he straightened.

_Is a symbol of power_

Fili turned to Balin, who held the crown in his hands.

_Recognized my Men and Elves_

He reached out and took it, thumbs curving along the stylized wings

_The crown of Thror, the crown of Thorin_

The seconds of his hesitation felt like an eternity. He could feel the eyes of his Company on him.

_The crown of-_

Now his hands shook. Where they had been steady as he moved his uncle’s body – his _uncle_ , his _king_ – now they trembled over scraps of metal.

_Fíli, King Under the Mountain_

Dwalin opened the casket. Fíli caught a glimpse of the sunken eyes, the too-pale skin.

He shoved in the crown.

“Seal it,” he ordered, and backed away.

_A symbol of power_

\-------

“Fíli-”

“Not now, Kíli.”

“Fíli, are you-?”

“Later. There’s work to do.”

Warm eyes. Disappointment. Pain.

\-----

Fíli let in the women, children, and elderly of Lake-town.

He wasn’t going to. He wasn’t sure he _should_ , fears of robbery and a strange sense that he had trusted Men before to his own sorrow holding him down. But the sight of Thorin’s crown on the stone floor had turned his stomach and strengthened his resolve. 

It felt, inexplicably, like a triumph.

When he told Balin, his tutor (advisor now, he must remember) approved, saying it would improve relations between dwarves and men, start to rebuild the alliances that had once thrived between Erebor and Dale. 

_The Men of Dale thriving through the dwarves’ sweat and toil, because other Men wanted no dealings with dwarves directly._

He had them placed in the Great Hall, the one that looked now like a sea of gold. It was empty of bodies and of the high walkways that wouldn’t have been safe for Men, without a dwarf’s sense of the stone. Hovering nearby was Dwalin, glaring at their guests and bristling with light armor and weapons. As predicted, their cousin had no intention of leaving his new king alone; he was a shadow at Fíli’s side, save the moments Fíli escaped into the king’s quarters (his great-grandfather’s, his own, his brother’s, he needed to think of it as home and not as something stolen from a dead hero). Directly by Fíli’s side Kíli, looking better than he had the day before, his color improved and his eyes bright with interest and enthusiasm instead of fever.

Their hands brushed from time to time, and Kíli would smile at him like Fíli was something positive, something valuable. That look made Fíli want to take Kíli’s hand, hold on to it, press Kíli’s wrist to his lips and breathe in the beating of his heart.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he pulled his hand away and held it out to greet their new tenants. They wouldn’t be staying for free; he and Bard agreed on that. They would stay in return for a share of the meat the Men would bring them from hunting the land the elves had agreed to open to them for the coldest months. There had not been such cooperation among the three races since before Thror’s rule. Balin was pleased, Dwalin was suspicious, and Fíli was trying to appear as calm as possible while every fiber of his being told him to get them out, get them out-

_Men do not belong in the mountain._

He could imagine Thorin’s reaction to this decision. But he wasn’t Thorin. He didn’t feel the pull of the Arkenstone as Thorin had, or of the gold.

_I am stronger than a stone or a hoard or the miasma left by a dragon._

Perhaps a hundred women and young children settled amid the gold with wide eyes, and a handful more of the elderly who had managed to escape. They crowded and chattered and filled the hall with sound that should have felt warm, should have made Fili laugh or smile or feel something other than defensive and wary at the thought of how close the treasury was, how now they were outnumbered in their own mountain.

Fili missed Kili at his side, as these dark thoughts circled and fought with the kindness and good sense he'd inherited from his father.

It was easier to remember who he was, who he had been before he was king, with Kili there to remind him. But Kili was helping at the entrance, leading the children in and helping organize the camp under Balin and Ori's careful direction. This had to be done in an organized fashion, or they would have a mob on their hands; Ori's flair for organization, Balin's calm kindness, and Kili's energy were a perfect combination. Fili didn't try to fight the flash of pride as the nervous children relaxed under the power of his brother's smile.

He didn't know the others, but Bard’s daughter Sigrid was with them, though she was more a young lady than a child, and her amazement was tempered by her father’s watchful ways. 

“Thank you,” she said, and Bofur beamed at her from where he was helping to set everything up. He’d taken quite a shine to Bard’s daughters. Fíli felt a flash of approval as well, with the memory of how fiercely this untrained girl had fought to protect her siblings.

“You’re welcome. Keep it clean, and all will be well.” Fíli offered her a small smile. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” came Kíli’s voice from beside him, warm and steady and so familiar that Fíli felt the muscles in his shoulders relax for the first time in too long. “I’m looking forward to talking to you when I’m not, you know,” he laughed a little, rubbing the back of his head, “delirious and covered in sweat.”

The girls giggled. It was a nice sound, and he imagined it had been a fair while since they’d had a chance to laugh. 

Kíli had a way with people, even in the midst of fear or danger. He always had. Fíli felt a surge of pride at the thought. 

Kíli would always be Kíli.

“I have to go,” Fíli said, “there’s a lot to take care of.” He glanced at Kíli. “Do you want to stay?”

It would be easier if he did. If he stayed, Fíli wouldn’t have to constantly fight the desire to reach out for him. Nor would he have to deal with what Fíli was going to meet with Dori, Nori, and Ori about.

Bodies.

Erebor was full of corpses.

The Company – his Company - lived in a mountain of Death.

Before his people could come to the mountain, it had to be emptied of the dead. And it had to be done properly, not piled up and burned without due respect. Not just Thorin, whose body was sealed in the stone-

_With his crown_

-but also the others, 

“No, I’ll come with you,” Kíli said, slipping his hand in Fíli’s and giving it a squeeze.

Fíli didn’t pull away. 

He couldn’t.

He nodded. “Let’s go then,” he said, and made his apologies to the Men as he left with his heir on his heels.


	9. Chapter 9

**IX**

Kíli dreamed of armor.

He dreamed of wearing armor for the first time, the metal beautiful and intricately forged, but heavy. Too heavy. His body wasn’t trained for carrying this much weight, and he couldn’t use his bow properly. 

Fíli’d been so proud, though. He’d helped make it- 

A gentle voice, warm with humor:

_“No, this won’t do for you. I’ll have something made that will.”_ Lips against his forehead; warm breaths stirring his bangs. _“I can’t have my consort immobile.”_

He dreamed of mithril, smooth links, cool to the touch, worth nearly all the gold in the treasury. 

_“This you can move in. This will keep you safe.”_ With this last, steel entered the gentle voice, protective, and the mithril shirt slithered over his arms and shoulders and stomach.

He dreamed of seeing it for the first time, that shirt worth more than all the king’s ceremonial armor, as his uncle lowered it over their Hobbit.

**NINE**

They estimated it would take a month to clear the bodies.

They began with those outside the mountain. Eleven days after they woke, with the women and children of Laketown safely settled in the mountain, Fíli finally had time to worry about the bodies that littered the halls and filled the side passages. 

It felt to Kíli as if each day had been a year. But while his soul suffered, his body continued to heal, until he still wore bandages but moved freely, with only a lingering tenderness and encroaching exhaustion to show that he had nearly been slain on a battlefield a fortnight previous.

Dain offered to stay and assist in properly gathering Erebor’s dead. It seemed obvious to Kíli that they should accept – the Company couldn’t do it alone and his soldiers were used to taking orders from him. He had also served in war before; he had dealt with mass funerals, had experience organizing them and ensuring the bodies were treated with respect. He was a good dwarf. Thorin had always trusted him, had even expected Dain to support him in retaking the mountain, though in the end he didn’t. 

It had hurt Thorin, to hear his most trusted kin wouldn’t stand with him. He’d hidden it well, but it had been there to see for anyone who knew how to look. 

_The hearts of kings are not made of stone, no matter what the stories say._

But for Fíli . . . 

Kíli watched as Fíli wrestled with the decision.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just say yes,” he confessed as his brother paced within the small bedroom of their shared apartment. They hadn’t opened up the offices near the main hall yet – they weren’t a priority, and the Men were too close by – so Fíli had declared this small bedroom as the Company’s meeting place at present.

No one commented on the fact that the second bedroom had never been used, or asked why the king and his heir slept interwoven together, hands tangled in hair and cloth, sharing breaths.

Kíli was glad. He didn’t think he could put his need to stay close to his brother into words. 

_I am your helpmeet and your heir._

“It’s Dain,” Fíli snapped. His body was usually loose and graceful for a dwarf, from his years of sword training; now every gesture felt cutting and sharp. “He wants to control every decision-”

“He offers advice!”

“Too much! If he wanted a say in running the mountain, he should have helped reclaim it!”

Kíli’s brows drew together. “But…he did. Fíli.” He reached out, caught Fíli’s sleeve. “He’s the reason we’re not all dead at the base and Erebor overrun with orcs.” He tried a teasing smile, “Or worse…with elves!”

Fíli snatched his arm away. It hurt more than it should have. “He came hoping to pick through our remains,” he growled, and his eyes were like ice. “Don’t be so naïve, brother. It’s treasure he’s interested in, not family. If he was so concerned with family, he wouldn’t have left Thorin to deal with a dragon on his own.”

They were talking in circles. “You’re being unreasonable,” Kíli argued, because someone had to, “it’s not like you. Fíli-” he reached out again but didn’t touch, his hand hovering over the fur collar of the new coat, not wanting to face that rejection again. “We can’t do it alone. You can’t do it, no matter what you say about your injuries, and you can’t expect eleven dwarves to clear an entire battlefield.”

“The elves-”

“Removed their dead, and are helping with Lake-town. But it’s dwarves who send each other into the stone. You _know_ that.”

Fíli faltered. 

It was a physical thing, his eyes darting away and back, his feet shifting, his shoulders falling. 

Kíli slowly, carefully, rested his hand on fur and leather. 

“I do,” Fíli finally said, stepping closer. “You’re right. He can clear the battlefield and then we’ll . . . reassess, when it comes to clearing the mountain.”

It felt as if they’d won another battle, but Kíli didn’t know why. 

They met with Dain three days later, in his large tent just outside the twisted remains of the great doors of Erebor. Fíli wore a simple gold circlet they’d found in the apartments next to their own, one of dozens of small items the Company had found in their various quarters, where the halls were too narrow for Smaug to gather items for the treasury. His coat was of rich leather and fur, once again altered by Dori, and insisted that Kíli be as well dressed, with thick, sturdy boots and beads in his hair. He’d smiled as he put them in that morning, clipping them into place with pride in his eyes and a soft, “You look a proper heir of Erebor, Kíli,” followed by a kiss that was almost a breath. 

Kili stood beside Fíli as he and Dain discussed clearing the orcs from the battlefield. The cold had worked in their favor, keeping the bodies from decaying in the sun; they would be gathered and transported away, far enough that their ashes wouldn’t fall on the mountain. It would take time and a coordinated effort. Several of the Company had already volunteered. 

Dain’s men had gathered most of their own dead in the days Fíli and Kíli slept from their injuries. They couldn’t send them to the stone, so far from the Iron Hills, so they built pyres and gathered the ash in small caskets that were constantly guarded until they could be transported to the mountains and hills of their birth. They would not be left alone until they were home.

 _Buried in the mountain of your birth,_ Kíli thought as he counted the boxes of the dead. 

He had been born in the Iron Hills, where Dain had offered his parents asylum in the last months of his mother’s pregnancy. Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur were born in the Blue Mountains. Fíli and Ori…

Fíli and Ori had both been born on the road, in tents, with no stone to surround them.

There had been rumors when they were children, about the dwarves born away from the mountains. Rumors that they’d have no stone sense, that they’d grow too tall, that they’d be dark-blind. It was bad enough for Kíli, born in a mountain but leaving it months later; it was terrible for children like Fíli. 

Of course, they’d lived in a mountain now for over fifty years, and they’d all been fine. Being born on the road didn’t mean the mountain wouldn’t take them in, that it would reject them.

But—

He looked at his brother.

_No. No, there’s nothing wrong with Fíli. He’s just tired. He needs to rest and he can’t. Once the mountain’s cleared and the funerals are over, we’ll take a few days off. Just the two of us._

Waking up with Fíli, pressed close, his body reacting, feeling _Fíli’s_ body, and Fíli wouldn’t have to get up, wouldn’t have to start working before dawn-

“Kíli?”

Kíli turned. Fíli smiled at him, a hint of a dimple, tired but not – not _off_ as he seemed sometimes since they woke. Not _strange_. “We’re ready to go.” 

“Oh! Sorry,” Kíli’s voice was sheepish. “I was just,” a beat, “thinking.”

Dain’s voice was kind, “You lads need to make sure you take time to rest. You don’t have to do everything in one day. There’s time yet, and you’ve people to help you. You were both-” his voice caught, and there was something in his eyes that made Kíli’s chest run cold, “badly injured.”

Fíli was standing so close that Kíli _felt_ the shift in his body, the way his muscles tightened and his back straightened, how his stance changed into an almost defensive posture. Automatically, Kíli’s hand went to the dagger at his waist, though he couldn’t imagine what danger his brother saw. 

“Yes, well,” Fíli said, his voice stiff and cold again, “as you can see, we’re well now.”

Dain’s brows drew together. “Aye, lad. I see that. Just as I saw your ribs on the battlefield-”

Kíli felt light-headed a moment, but he didn’t sway.

“-and the dozen arrows that pierced your brother.”

Fíli froze.

“What?” he demanded, taking a threatening step forward. Dain was a big dwarf, tall and broad like Thorin and Dwalin, but he gave way at the look in Fíli’s eyes, the unaccustomed danger in his tone.

Dain caught himself and stopped, straightening his shoulders. “I helped carry both of you off the field, young king. I wouldn’t have taken any odds on your survival, but Kíli wasn’t much better off. There were arrows in his chest and his belly.” He took a slow breath. “There are reasons the elves thought you both a lost cause, and half the Men believed you dead until you walked into the sunlight. I don’t know what miracle saved you both, but you’d do well to respect it and take more care with yourselves.”

Fíli turned on Kíli, his eyes wild. “ _Arrows_?” he demanded, and Kíli remembered.

Oh, he remembered.

The pain of the first had blinded him, deep in his shoulder, a shock of white across his eyes. The second knocked him to his knees, and he had fallen, fallen on Fíli (dying, dying, his breath wet and thick with blood), protecting him with shield and body as he was struck again and again. 

_Thranduil’s eyes._

_Thranduil’s eyes when he saw Fíli’s chest._

_I thought it was shock._

_It wasn’t. It wasn’t._

Fíli grabbed his wrist, and his fingers were like ice.

_It was fear._

Distantly, he heard Fíli making their apologies, woodenly thanking Dain for his concern, assuring their cousin that he had nothing to fear, Erebor was in good hands. Dain’s assurances that he never meant to imply anything else fell on deaf ears as Fíli pulled Kíli away, out of the tent and into the sun.

_I grew up in the sun, surrounded by trees, sung to sleep by the songs of birds._

Fíli didn’t speak, his jaw tight and his eyes flashing as he tugged Kíli through the ruins of Erebor’s great gate, toward the royal hall.

 _I grew up in the mountain, encased in stone, rocked into slumber by the rhythm of hammers_.

Then they were in the room, and Fíli’s hands were on him, pulling at his shirts, and his voice was cracking. 

“What does he mean, _arrows_?!” Fíli demanded.

Kíli shivered. “I was hit by an arrow,” he said, and he was, again and again, until he knew he would die there in the mud.

Until he had welcomed death, as long as he could walk into the Halls with Fíli by his side.

“He said arrows. More than one. What did he mean?” Fíli’s fingers dug at the bandage Oin had replaced just that morning, and they were shaking and warm.

Kíli looked at him.

Fili’s eyes were wide and pale, his lips parted on panicked breaths. 

“How many, Kíli? How many arrows?”

Kíli raised his hands, rested them on Fíli’s. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I lost count.”

The sound Fíli made broke his heart.

“I didn’t know,” Fíli said, in the voice of Kíli’s brother and not of a king. “I didn’t know.”

Kili’s throat felt tight, closed-off, and pain sparked deep in his chest. “You didn’t _ask,_ ” he said.

 _I should have known. I should have known something was wrong, because you didn’t ask_.

Fíli always worried over him. It had bothered him as a child; he’d accused Fíli of being a spare mum when one was plenty. But after the Mirkwood-

_I will carry him if I must!_

Fíli kissed him.

Pulled him down and kissed him, desperate and bruising, too-hard and all wrong but perfect at the same time because this was-

_Fíli._

Nothing else, no one else, and Kíli wrapped his arms around his _everything_ and held on. “I love you,” he said, because he had to, because retaking Erebor was supposed to lead to joy and riches, not this endless darkness and fear. 

Loving Fíli was his spark of happiness, and he wouldn’t let it go.

Strong arms returned the embrace, broad hands splayed against his back, and Fíli said, “Kíli,” like his name was a prayer to the Maker, every hope and dream of their people.

But it wasn’t _I love you._

“Fíli, _please_.”

Fíli shuddered in his hold, kissed his neck. “I love you,” he said, finally, finally, but there was pain in his voice and Kíli didn’t know why.

“Fi-”

“I want to see you.” Fíli pulled away enough to look up at him. “Let me see.”

Kíli lowered his arms, and Fíli pushed his shirt all the way off.

One of Fíli’s hands slid back to his wrist, lifted it, and raised it to his lips. The blue eyes closed as he pressed his lips there, held his breath.

“Fíli?”

His brother’s eyes opened, the pupils wide and dark. He dropped Kíli’s hand and reached for the bandages.

Kíli hadn’t looked, not since he’d been hurt, and he didn’t look now. Instead, he watched Fíli’s face as his brother pulled the cloth away, as he paled, and his lips trembled, as he reached out and touched once, twice, three times.

_Four_

Fíli’s eyes were bright, but his voice was flat. “You were shot four times.”

“I only,” Kíli swallowed, “I only remember two.”

“A week ago, you were shot _four times_.” He sounded almost angry now, and Kíli suddenly wanted to step back, get away from those hands now pulling at the edge of his trousers, those eyes glaring at his hip. “Five.”

“The elves-”

“Don’t speak to me of elves!” Fíli snapped, brows drawn together and jaw tight. He’d never before looked so much like their uncle. “They would have left us both to die and been happy for it!”

Kíli glared at him. “That’s not true! They saved my life! You sound like Thorin, hating the elves for no reason – you used to say they’re just _people_ , they make mistakes-!”

Fíli growled, low under his breath, like a wolf warning off intruders. When he spoke, his voice held on to a hint of that rumble, low and cold. “The elves care nothing for mortal races, especially dwarves. An elf who would lower himself to heal a Man feels no need to do the same for dwarves.”

Anger spiked, and Kíli’s hands rolled into fists. “Why are you acting like this?!” he demanded, thinking of red hair and worried eyes, of pain and surgery and blessed relief; remembering cuts and bumps and bruises from his childhood, and how Fíli fussed over them. Now he didn’t seem to care, beyond having an excuse to turn on the elves. “Oin says the elves healed all the dwarves they could, and helped clear them from the battlefield to the tents! He says-”

“Oin is blinded by them, just as you are. Oin for their medicine, you for what you take as their beauty,” Fíli said, and his voice was dismissive. Fíli wasn’t dismissive; he was thoughtful, given to listening and watching. 

Kíli’s anger tangled with fear in his belly. Something was wrong.

Something was wrong.

He reached out for Fíli’s arms. “Fíli, stop. Think. This isn’t like you, you aren’t like this. Please-”

Fíli stepped away. 

Stepped away before Kíli’s fingers so much as brushed his sleeves. 

“Go to bed,” he said.

“What?”

“Go to bed. You’re injured, and you’re tired. Get some sleep.”

Kíli scowled. “Not until we’re done talking,” he insisted. “I’m worried about you, Fíli.”

 _I’m not scared_ of _you. I’m scared_ for _you._

He understood those words now. He hadn’t at the time. 

Fíli didn’t falter. His eyes didn’t soften. He didn’t reach out to pull Kíli close, to touch his wrist, to make him laugh. Fíli stood before him, stiff and straight and so wrong it wasn’t even subtle anymore. “Worry about yourself,” he said, and it sounded like an order. “You are my heir. You have a responsibility to our people to stay well.” He motioned sharply, not to the great chamber with the bed they’d been sharing, but the smaller side room they’d used as an office. “Get some rest.”

“Your…heir?” Kíli’s head spun with too many emotions at once – fury, pain, exhaustion, love, and a deep hurt that pounded in his temples with the beating of his heart. “I’m more than your heir, Fíli.”

Words flickered on the edge of his tongue but lingered, silenced by something he couldn’t quite identify, something in his chest that urged for trust and obedience. 

_Don’t do this_.

_Don’t push me away like Thorin pushed you._

_I’m meant to help you. I’m meant to love you. I’m meant to stand at your side, not behind your shoulder._

For a breath, Fíli’s eyes widened. His lips parted, and his brows lifted in something like surprise. “You’re,” he said, but his voice caught.

_Yours._

“You’re my brother,” Fíli said, and there was his voice, a little light, a little high, “I’m worried. I’m worried about you. You need to rest.” His eyes flickered over Kíli’s chest, covered with fresh skin over wounds that should have killed him.

_We should both be dead._

_Couldn’t die yet._

“Please,” Fíli said, and Kíli felt his shoulders bow before that voice, those eyes. He was so tired. So tired. Every muscle ached. 

When Fíli wrapped an arm around his waist, cool hand at his hip, Kíli didn’t pull away. 

When Fíli led him to the small bedroom, he didn’t argue.

When Fíli lowered him into the bed, adjusted the blankets, stroked his hair, he only watched him, his heart hurting.

When Fíli turned away and left him, he let his eyes fall shut and curled into the lonely blankets. 

_Something is wrong._

_I need to help him._

_My king._

_Fíli._


	10. Chapter 10

**[X]**

Fíli dreamed of beds.

Rough straw pallets scattered under the stars.

Mattresses stuffed with old material and scraps, tucked into tents.

A proper bed filled with straw and a soft layer of goosedown.

A huge bed that could have fit five dwarves but felt just right for two; a loud laugh, deep groans, scrambling hands; soft-edged from an imagination working without actual knowledge of how those dark curls would cling to his fingers, how Kíli’s low voice would sound as he spilled over Fíli’s fingers-

Soft skin under his hands, a gentle laugh, delicate pants and whispers and heat and warmth, so real he felt hard, felt hot, felt-

**TEN**

Fíli woke up reaching across the sheets for a warm shoulder that wasn’t there.

“Kíli?” he murmured into the dark, but he received no answer.

_Where did he go?_

Fíli pushed out of bed, flicking the covers into place behind him.

_Just as well, he’s a grown dwarf, he should be on his own._

He padded to the bathing room, washed his face, cleaned his teeth.

“But I want Kíli with me,” he murmured to his reflection. “I sleep better when he’s with me.”

He set the cool water to run. They’d discovered quickly that it was easier to add hot to cool than to fill the tub with boiling water and try to bring it down to a temperature less likely to cook you.

He’d let Kíli have first chance at a bath this morning, he’d need it.

_Shouldn’t have lied about his injuries. Can’t have someone so close who can’t be trusted._

A few more steps to the small bedroom they were using as an office. He’d look again over Bombur’s scribbled reports about the state of the great forges before he headed down for breakfast with the others. Kíli was probably already there, reminding Ori to relax occasionally-

He stopped.

Kíli was in the bed, curled on his side, arms wrapped around his middle.

Kíli.

_Kíli._

Why was he-

_You’re my brother._

_You need to rest._

Fíli’s hand trembled against the arching stone of the opening, his hands tangling in the rich golden cloth of the curtain hanging there.

“I put you here,” he whispered. “I put you here alone.”

Marks on Kíli’s skin, torn scars that should have been – he knew they should have been – open and weeping still, red along the stitches – but already, already scars.

He pressed a hand to his ribs, where there was only a dull ache – had only been a dull ache for the last two days.

“I should have been dead.”

_My people need a leader._

He had to apologize. He had to wrap his arms around his brother, and kiss him, and beg for forgiveness that he didn’t deserve, for pushing Kíli away when he only wanted Kíli close, closer.

A voice cut in from the living area. “Fíli? Kíli?”

_Ori._

_It’s probably something important, something to do with the treasury._

Fíli had limited access to the treasury, allowing only Ori and Bofur inside, with occasional help from Bard’s daughters. He hadn’t let himself through the great doors, though he wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t felt the call of the gold when he walked into the great cavern, only a deep sort of sickness in his stomach at the sight of Thorin thigh-deep in the center of it, his eyes wild.  
_  
I’m stronger than Thorin,_ he thought, and he didn’t know if he was pleased or horrified.

“Fíli?” the brush of boots in the front room made Fíli’s body tighten defensively. He wrapped his hand around the knife tucked in his belt. “It’s Gandalf and Bilbo. They say they have the Arkenstone.”

He needed to stay with Kíli.

He turned on his heel, stepped into the main room.

He needed to apologize.

“Where are they?” he asked, picking up his coat, shrugging into it, buckling on one of his great-grandfather’s golden belts. He didn’t have a crown yet, but he would look like a king.

Go back! Go back! He needed – he had to go back-

“Downstairs, by the main gates.”

“I said all guests were to be escorted.” Sharp, but why, when the guests were Bilbo and Gandalf?

He’d trusted Gandalf once, before Thorin died, before Fíli died-

_Didn’t die, just injured. Just injured._

“Bofur’s with them.”

“The water’s running in the bath. Switch it to hot and wake Kíli. We’ve another long day ahead of us.”

Fíli would wake Kíli! Gandalf could wait, Bilbo would understand-

“Yes,Fíli.”

He would tell Kíli he was sorry, tell him he had to go, this was important. Tell him Fíli didn’t – didn’t really remember sending him away-

Fíli walked out of his rooms and downstairs to meet the Wizard and their Hobbit.

His heart pounded in his ears every step of the way.

\----

Gandalf stood in the ruins of the great gates with Bilbo at his side. The Hobbit looked better, his color improved, his hair trimmed and clean, his clothes fresh and whole. Bofur was laughing and smiling with him, though they wore matching bandages around their heads.

When they saw him approach, their laughter died. Bilbo’s smile remained, warm if a little uncertain.

Bofur’s disappeared.

“I’ll walk you back to camp when you’re done,” Bofur said, his eyes flickering between Bilbo and Fíli with obvious nerves. For a moment, he stood still, clearly undecided; then he squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder protectively before stepping away, his heavy steps echoing down the hallway.

“Fíli,” Bilbo said warmly. “It’s good to see you up and around.”

Fíli smiled back at him. There was something wonderful about Hobbits, even their fussy, feisty one, something that relaxed the spine and warmed the heart. “And you as well. Kíli’s been fussing about coming to visit you.”

“I thought perhaps he’d be with you.”

“Still sleeping. He’s recovering, and the days have been long.” Fíli’s gaze slid over Bilbo’s chest, the bag at his side. “Ori said you’ve brought the Arkenstone.”

“Yes, Thranduil and Bard returned it, as agreed, on the understanding that Bard and Lake-town will get my share of the treasure.”

“They didn’t care to come themselves?” Fíli asked sharply. _This is no way to behave among kings._

Gandalf’s eyes watched him, ancient and knowing. “Bilbo wanted to see you, and volunteered to bring it. He thought he might be more welcome.”

 _You’re right,_ Fíli thought, his own thought, his own mind, _I wouldn’t want to see them inside the mountain._

“And I wanted to . . . not quite apologize.” Bilbo reached for the bag. “I didn’t – I didn’t mean to steal it. I just. Didn’t know what else to do, but something had to be done-”

A huge hand settled on Bilbo’s. “Wait.”

_Fury._

Fury flared behind Fíli’s eyes, emerged as a low growl from his chest, like an animal.

When Fíli spoke, his voice sounded . . . strange. Distant. “It is not for you to decide what will be done with the Heart of Erebor, Tharkûn.”

Gandalf’s voice was infinite and gentle. “No, it is not. But it is yours, Fíli, son of Dis, daughter of Thrain. And I ask that you speak with me a while before taking this stone from hands that can hold it safely.”

Yes. Yes. Fíli needed to speak to-

Fear. Fury and fear, all tangled in his chest. He felt the words on his tongue, felt _I do not take orders from you, as you well know_ , but he forced them down, forced them back, choked on them at the back of his throat.

He said, “Yes.”

It felt like a triumph.

Gandalf sighed and knelt, as he did when talking to Bilbo, but never when talking to dwarves. Hobbits thought themselves small; dwarves knew others too large. They didn’t feel any need to have the big folk condescend by lowering to their superior level.

Fíli felt an urge to snap in offense, but he didn’t.

He didn’t.

“Fíli,” Gandalf said, and his voice was warm ( _too warm, not genuine, be wary_ ), “have you been having strange dreams?”

_Digging into the heart of a mountain, deep, too deep, finding death-_

_A crown of gold and mithril being lowered to his hair-_

_Armor cracking, armor failing, dying once, dying twice, blood-_

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice rough as if he had been screaming.

“And your injuries, they’re healed?”

“Almost.” Not quite, tender and sore and he was tired too soon, but the flesh was smooth and Oin had unwrapped the bandages with hands that trembled, his eyes wide.

There were whispers, whispers among Dain’s men about Fíli. Whispers that he should be dead.

“And your thoughts?”

_Aren’t mine. Aren’t mine. Aren’t mine-_

“Are no concern of yours.”

_No-_

“You are my concern, Fíli. Your mother entrusted me with your care.”

Fíli imagined his mother taking the great wizard aside and ordering him to keep an eye on her loved ones. _She would_ , he thought fondly, and thought of telling Kíli about it later, of watching Kíli laugh. He meant to say, _And of course you wouldn’t dare upset Princess Di_ s, but instead he heard, in his own voice:

“I am not a child. Far from it.”

He saw the wizard react to his dismissive tone, his hand tightening around his staff. But Gandalf calmed himself, rested a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and gently pushed Bilbo back. Bilbo’s eyes were wide and curious, a flush of color across his cheeks and ears. “I will help you,” Gandalf said, and the last two words were almost a question, “old friend.”

_Help me._

“I have no need of your inconstant friendship, Wizard!”

Bilbo flinched away. His hand slid to the hilt of Sting.

_I taught you to fight. I taught you, on the road, to defend yourself._

Gandalf leaned down, caught Fíli’s furious gaze, held it. “And yet you have it, as you always have. As you will, though the ages pass and the world be reborn.”

Fíli spoke: “Gandalf.”

_Tharkun._

“Thank you.”

_Manipulator._

Gandalf nodded. “Be strong, Fíli. Hold on to who you are. Cling to those who help you. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

Fíli wavered. “But Bilbo – you were meant to escort Bilbo home-”

“It’s fine,” Bilbo insisted, “I’m fine, the lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond have both offered me an escort.”

Fíli nodded. His head ached, pain behind his eyes and at his temples, the steady beat of his heart. “Very well.”

Gandalf pushed to his feet, speaking as he did. His movements were too smooth for an old man, too easy. “Try not to make too many large decisions. Stay close to those who know you best and have loved you longest – Kíli, certainly, Balin and Dwalin. Stay away from the treasure, though I believe it is safe enough without a dragon on it.” He paused, his voice hardening. “Allow Bilbo or myself to take the Arkenstone-”

“It is the symbol of Erebor’s power!”

“Dain hasn’t demanded to see it.”

No. No, he hadn't. But Fíli couldn’t let Gandalf take it.

“Bilbo, then.”

Gandalf studied him. “Bilbo, who will be well-escorted by a contingent of elves.”

Fíli scowled. “And one dwarf.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose, but he looked, finally, more amused than worried. “One dwarf?”

“Bilbo is a member of the Company,” the words came easily, he didn’t have to fight for them. They were true, he felt them, how blessed he was, they all were, that Bilbo had forgiven them. “I’ll have a dwarf with him, and not only elves.” He considered. “Bofur might come. And Bifur.”

Gandalf’s voice was shrewd now, “Don’t you need them here?”

Fíli set his jaw. “Bilbo is more important,” he insisted.

Gandalf smiled. “Yes,” he agreed. “Bilbo is more important.” He rested a hand, very briefly, on Fíli’s shoulder. “You are stronger than you know, son of Dis. Remember what I’ve told you.”

Fíli would remember. Keep Kíli close. Keep Kíli safe. Don’t make decisions without input. Talk to Balin and Dwalin. Hold on-

-Hold on.

Fíli nodded. “I’ll remember,” he said, and the thing in his chest rumbled but didn’t rise.

\----

Fíli ran.

When he was a boy, homeless on the road, Fíli would sometimes run laps around the camp to release all the energy young dwarves pent up without proper activities to keep them busy. The habit continued in Ered Luin, as he grew old enough to wander free of the watchful eyes of his parents. He would run through the settlement, then the mountain as it was open to him, into the mines – anywhere considered safe enough for Thorin’s heir presumptive.

Anywhere he could be away from all the eyes constantly watching him.

All his running had made him unusually graceful on his feet, sharper and faster than his age-mates. Dwalin had despaired of him at times for his strange tendency to dart from foot to foot instead of standing his ground, and his preference for light weapons over the heavy axes and hammers considered more appropriate for a royal family. But Thorin had seen something promising in Fíli’s peculiar style, had fostered it, had encouraged him to use his speed to replace the disadvantage of his relatively small size. He’d even insisted Kíli learn to fight with him, the pair of them, and Fíli wondered if Kíli knew he’d been trained up as Fíli’s bodyguard, or thought the bow and his heavy longsword had been his own ideas.

Either way, it worked.

Fíli was a fierce warrior, more than capable of holding his own, and able to leap onto the backs of spiders or dart around the legs of wargs where others would have stood immobile and been taken down by the greater bulk. He ran longer, could stop and turn faster, and to some degree Kíli had taken that up as well, even lighter on his feet than Fíli because of his slighter, longer frame.

Fíli ran.

But he didn’t run to clear his mind. He didn’t trace the abandoned hallways of Erebor, boots pounding and echoing against the walls as the stretch of muscle and steady breaths brought his spiraling thoughts to bay.

_Cling to those who help you._

Fíli ran to Kíli.

Kíli was still in their quarters, just out of the bath, his hair wet and clinging to his neck, to his cheeks. He looked sad, his eyes distant, and achingly beautiful.

“Kíli.”

His brother turned, and Fíli almost backed away at the mask in place over Kíli’s expressive features. It wasn’t right for Kíli – not _Kíli_ – to hide his feelings away. That simply wasn’t how he worked. He was open, always. “My king,” he answered, and there was caution in his voice but no sarcasm.

No, no, Kíli couldn’t accept what Fíli was doing to him. He needed to yell and scream and throw punches. He needed to come alive and fight and grab on so Fíli could fight too.

“I’m sorry,” Fíli blurted, as he never had when they were younger. They didn’t apologize, they just tactfully ignored that there’d ever been a fight.

_Kings don’t apologize._

“But lovers do,” Fíli whispered on a breath. He didn’t want to be Kíli’s king. He wanted to be Kíli’s brother, and his friend, and his lover, if he could. Anything, anything.

Kíli’s eyes widened. “You don’t have to-”

“I do. I do, you-I sent you away. But I don’t remember sending you away.” The words tripped over themselves. “When I woke up, I couldn’t remember why you weren’t with me, not until I saw you in the other bed.” He stepped forward, reached out, even as something in him tried to hold him back, tried to stop him, whispered about _heirs_ and _responsibilities_. “Gandalf asked me about my dreams, he asked me if I hear someone in my head arguing with me.” He didn’t look at Kíli’s face, didn’t want to see his brother’s reactions to his words. “He says I should keep you close,” he said, his fingers resting lightly on Kíli’s forearms. “He says to depend on you. But I don’t think it’s safe.” Kíli’s tunic was slightly damp – he’d always been impatient, didn’t wait long enough before getting dressed.

Fíli felt a tug of a smile.

The _something_ quieted beneath the force of a hundred memories of telling Kíli to slow down and getting rolled eyes and a rushed grin in return.

Kíli looked down, took a slow breath. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said, lifting his gaze slowly. He looked fierce, and determined, and he rested his left hand over Fíli’s right. “I let you push me away last night. But I won’t again.”

“Kíli-”

“I’ll fight you if you try.”

Fíli laughed, though it was more tears than laughter. “Good.”

“Because I love you.” Kíli looked so unwavering, his jaw set, and no flush on his cheeks. He was stating a fact, so solid that it had become undeniable. “Because you love me, but you’re afraid of it.”

Fíli’s heart pounded, something sick in his chest, but not…not the strange emotions that lived separate from him, not the voice in his thoughts. Only his own, familiar concern. He was _used_ to worrying about Kíli, even before the arrow. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Kíli stepped forward, the braver of them, and the kinder. Fíli didn’t deserve his forgiveness. “I won’t let you.”

“Kíli, I don’t-”

He wanted to say:

I don’t know who I am.

I don’t know what I’m saying.

I don’t know if I’m sane.

I don’t know if I’m safe.

But Fíli couldn’t put any of it into words, couldn’t say it aloud, and he didn’t know why. Like something pressing down on him, silencing him, speaking for him, and he couldn’t, he couldn’t-

Arms wrapped around him, pulled him close. “Fíli,” Kíli whispered, his voice low and rough.

 _Pull away_ , that thing in his head whispered, but he ignored it, denied it, held on, buried his fingers in the thick material of Kíli’s tunic and his eyes against Kíli’s shoulder. It still felt strange, after more than a decade, for Kíli to be so much taller than him, and that _thing_ sighed and pulled at him _Let go, don’t depend on anyone._

But this wasn’t _anyone_ , this was, “Kíli.” A breath. “I think I’m going mad.”

“No!” Kíli’s voice was fierce, his hands tightening. “You’re not, you’re not, Fíli-”

Fíli’s voice fractured, and he almost choked on the words, but he spat out, “I don’t know who I am,” and he breathed Kíli in, warm and familiar and everything he wanted and nothing he should have.

Kíli shuddered against him, growled, “You’re Fíli. You’re my brother.” A little hiccup of air, “You’re my king, you’re my-”

“Kíli,” _don’t don’t don’t say it out loud, I’m going mad and I’m dangerous, and I’m in love with-_

“-my everything.”

Yes.

Yes.

Fíli pulled back and tilted his head up, shoving the _thing_ down and away at those words. Slowly, he raised his hands and rested them (trembling) against Kíli’s neck.

A rhythm thrummed beneath his thumb, speeding up but steady, steady, real and solid and Kíli.

I love you, he thought, tried to push the words past all the guilt and all the fear and couldn’t. Instead, he pushed on his toes, gaze flickering over Kíli’s face (beloved, familiar, sharp nose and dark eyes), seeing wonder and acceptance before their mouths met.

Warm.

Warm, and a little wet, soft, the brush of stubble and the soft sound of surprise against his lips, and just-

“Kíli,” against that mouth and those hands tugging him close again. “Kíli,” as Kíli leaned down and he pushed up and it felt good and it felt right, like _home_ and _sanity_ and _brother_.

“You’re mine,” Kíli said against his mouth, his voice trembling but certain. “That’s who you are. Fíli. You’re mine.” His hands fumbled at Fíli’s chest, tugging at ties and pushing at cloth.

Fíli moaned into Kíli’s mouth and for a scattering of blessed moments, felt like it was true, and it was enough.

Not a king, not a madman, not a tyrant, just _Fíli_ , just _Kíli’s_.

His hands tore at Kíli’s clothes as he licked at Kíli’s lips and muttered, “I love you, I love you,” out loud, like he’d wanted to, and children and lineages and strange dark things in the back of his mind had no power over him when he touched his brother’s skin. And Kíli whispered it back, all tangled up with moans that made Fíli’s chest warm and his body harden at the same time.

A tangled waltz led to the bedroom, to the great bed of the king of Erebor, and clothes littered behind them, coats and belts joining the hated crown on the stone floor.

For a moment, Kíli hesitated. His dark eyes flickered over Fíli’s body, taking him in, down his chest and over his stomach to his erection, hard against his thigh. “Fíli-” he whispered, his voice shaking.

Fíli spread his legs. Spread his legs and reached out with his hands and offered himself without words to the person he loved above all others (had always, would always love).

 

 

Kíli slid onto the bed.

Fíli’s world became one of sensation after too long separated from it. The texture of embroidery on Kíli’s shirt, the crinkle of hair over smooth skin as he pushed it off, the bounce of the bed as he pushed (scrambled) back on it, Kíli’s arm as he pulled Kíli down, and the heat in his groin as Kíli landed on him and ground down.

“Yes,” Kíli was murmuring, over and over, like a chant of lust and protection. “Yes, yes, Fíli, yes, please-”

It felt like desperation, but that was fine, it was _his_ , born not of some dark corner but of finally having what he’d wanted for years but had never been willing to take. Kíli cursed under his breath as they wrestled Fíli’s shirt off, kissing him too-hard, hips stuttering-

-and then Kíli’s hand splayed over his heart, and his brother froze.

“Kíli?” Fíli whispered, suddenly afraid as he looked up into his brother’s eyes. They were dark, half hidden in a tangle of hair, wide with some emotion Fíli couldn’t quite place.

He lifted his hand and laid it, once again, along the strong line of Kíli’s neck.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, rubbing his thumb gently along the steady thrum of his brother’s life. “Do you need to stop?”

Kíli shook his head, pressed down just a little with his hand. “No.” He leaned down and pressed his lips beside his splayed fingers, pressed a kiss against Fíli’s chest. “No. I just-I like to feel it.” Another kiss, warmth across his cheeks.

He didn’t say the words, but Fíli heard them anyway: _Your heartbeat._

“When I was lying on the field,” Fíli said, both of them so still except for the pulse, pulse, pulse under Fíli’s thumb, under Kíli’s palm, “I thought I’d never be able to hear it. And now, when I feel like I’m going mad-”

“No! No, Fíli, it’s just, it’s been hard -”

“-when I feel like I’m going mad, I think of your heartbeat. How it’s still here, and strong. And I think I find myself again.”

And Fíli tugged his brother up and kissed him, properly this time, slowly, the shy slide of tongues and the soft sound of breaths between them, a laugh when their teeth scraped a little too hard.

Maybe it was too soon, but Kíli’s laugh against his lips made Fíli feel more alive, more centered, than he had in weeks, even before the battle, before the Mirkwood. And he had known Kíli from the day he was born, and loved him in every way he knew how and in ways he was only discovering, and this just felt—

Right, in a world where everything was wrong.

Now they took their time.

With the edge of desperation gone, being with Kíli was everything he’d been missing since that day he lay in the mud with his chest cracked open. It was joy and laughter as too-shy fingers traced over ticklish skin; it was new sensation, swirls of hair and thick muscle under his fingertips; it was something _new_ , all wrapped up in every moment of their lives together; it was something familiar-yet-not, Kíli’s erection swelling in his hand and Kíli’s skin shivering against his mouth.

It was being in love, saying the words and hearing them returned as he pulled on Kíli’s hips, stroked along Kíli’s ribs, moved against him, and nothing, nothing else. No fear, no venom, no cold calculation.

Kíli came first, body shivering and shuddering under Fíli’s hands, a little shout of surprise that was a shade of his old laugh, unencumbered by quests and death and reclaimed kingdoms. Fíli didn’t last long after seeing Kíli relax above him, his eyes dark and sated, his clever bowman’s fingers sliding through the mess on their bellies to wrap around Fíli and stroke once-twice as Fili’s world coalesced into warm and peace and pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linane: you can find a fullsize version of the picture above [HERE](http://linane-art.tumblr.com/post/106806793766/your-heart-pounding-chapter-10-heartbeat).


	11. Chapter 11

**[XI]**

Kíli dreamed of jewels.

Raw diamonds like pebbles poured into his hands.

Exquisite golden beads and braids threaded with something like silver, but lighter, and infinitely more valuable.

A coronet of white gold, cut into the sleek wings of ravens, inlaid with obsidian.

Plain iron beads made by Fíli’s hands, his brother braiding them into his hair only to watch them slide out again.

His mother with a deep sapphire at her throat, watching them ride away on a quest that could kill them all.

Thick diamonds woven through a black beard, his fingers sliding them into place.

**ELEVEN**

Kíli woke in his brother’s arms, Fíli’s eyes watching him with a mix of fierce affection and paralyzing fear. 

The affection he wanted, would hold and protect until the end of his days, but the fear he kissed away, sliding tongues and murmurs of love until their bodies slotted instinctively together. One hand tangled in Fíli’s hair and another wrapped around their erections, and when they came slick and warm on each other’s thighs their foreheads were pressed together and they breathed the same air.

“I’m going to keep you with me,” Kíli whispered, the vow as binding as his promise on the battlefield.

Fíli’s hips shivered through aftershocks, and he was flushed and handsome and young when he said, “I’ll fight to stay with you,” and for a few precious minutes all the fear was gone.

But the world, in its cold and uncertain glory, still existed beyond Fíli’s arms.

They couldn’t ignore it forever.

\----

“There’s something wrong with me,” Fíli said.

They were sitting on the bed, blankets tangled around their laps and a new day threatening to tear them apart, put them to work, push down on their healing bodies and damaged hearts. Their fingers – Kíli’s left, Fíli’s right - were twined together as they sat facing each other, knees almost touching. It felt like hundreds of nights from their childhoods, except Fíli’s hair was wild and his lips were swollen, and Kíli knew the soft, astonished sound he made when he came.

That, and this change in Fíli’s voice, this strange lack of confidence in himself. Fíli didn’t break, he bent, he smiled, he swaggered, he hid his fears deep behind his eyes. But now he sat with Kíli and held his hand and lifted his head and said _there’s something wrong with me._

“You’re just-”

“No.” Fíli’s grip tightened. “No, Kíli. There’s something wrong, and it’s important.”

Kíli wanted to look away. He wanted to be the young, foolish, headstrong one, to look away and pretend he didn’t know what Fíli was talking about.

But he did. 

_I do._

_I am your helpmeet and your heir._

He took a slow breath. 

“I think . . . try to explain it to me.”

Fíli offered him a small, grateful smile; the same one he would give Kíli for fetching the drinks after Fíli’d spent an entire day with Thorin or volunteering to do the dishes when Fíli’d had an hour more training than him that afternoon. With Fíli, it was so often the little things that made him happy. “There are . . .” Fíli’s voice trailed off a moment, but he wouldn’t look away. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, set his jaw with all the stubbornness they’d both inherited from their mother. “There are thoughts in my head that aren’t mine,” he said evenly.

Kíli frowned. “Thoughts?”

“Yes. I think one thing, and then sometimes I think another. Yesterday, when Gandalf was here, I wanted to tell him that something was wrong, but I couldn’t.” His voice shook a little, so little that only Kíli would hear it. “And there are times when-when we met with Dain. I know he’s a good dwarf, I trust him, but I kept _thinking_ – kept thinking he wanted the throne, that he would take it from me, if he could. Or from you.”

Kíli shook his head. “I don’t . . . think he would.”

“Neither do I!” a burst of sound. “At least, I don’t think I do. Thorin trusted him. He was always kind to us when we were children. He even wrote me a few letters when Thorin first made me heir, about how I needed to focus but also remember to relax.” He offered a wry smile. “He obviously knew Thorin well.”

There was a stab of pain at Thorin’s name, the ghost of Thorin’s forehead touching his one last time, but Kíli didn’t say anything. Thorin had made mistakes. He was forgiven for them. This was about Fíli. 

Finally, it could be about Fíli and not about their uncle. 

“How long has this been going on?”

Fíli’s eyes unfocused as he looked inward, a trick he used when he needed to think and look attentive at the same time. “Not…not before the battle. Only since then.”

“You said you wanted to tell Gandalf and you couldn’t?” Fíli nodded, his eyes sharpening again. “That sounds like you wanted to do something and couldn’t, not just thoughts.”

Fíli shivered. Kíli watched it, the shudder of muscles across his shoulders (still a little too thin, but still so strong), and his heart ached. “There was.” Now Fíli closed his eyes and looked down, letting his hair fall to hide his face as he hadn’t done since before his majority. “Yesterday morning. I wanted to stay and apologize to you, for putting you in the other bed. I don’t really _remember_ putting you there-”

Kíli reached out, because he couldn’t _not_ reach out, and ran gentle fingers over one of the messy braids. He would need to fix it before they left the room. “It’s all right.”

“No! It’s not because I don’t _remember_ , because it _hurt_ you!” Fíli tried to snatch the hand in Kíli’s away, but Kíli held on.

_Don’t let go._

_You’re mine._

_My king. My brother. My love._

Kíli raised the hand to his lips, kissed the fluttering wrist. “I love you,” he said, because he would say it as much as he needed to, as often as he wanted. “I love you.”

Fíli breathed.

“Do you have any idea what it is?”

Fíli shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was small. “No. I’ve tried to figure it out. But I don’t know.”

“Gandalf didn’t tell you?”

A rough sound that could have been a laugh if it wasn’t so worried, so tired. “Of course, Gandalf never tells us anything, does he?”

Kíli frowned and thought back. Those first days were a little fuzzy, he’d been in constant pain, he’d slept so much. It was hard to believe how short a time it had been since then. “You . . . when you spoke to Gandalf before. In the tent. When you told him to come to the coronation. Was that you?” Kíli wanted it to be him. He’d been a little frightened of Fíli then, but proud as well, saying to Gandalf’s face what they had quietly murmured behind his back ever since he tricked them into Rivendell.

“It . . .” Fíli considered, running his thumb along the side of Kíli’s hand as he did so, grounding them both here in this room and with each other. “Everything I said was things I’d been thinking. He did abandon us on the road. He did tell Thorin to go on this quest now. He did need to be the one to crown me if everyone was to accept it.” His brows drew together and he looked so confused and pained that Kíli wanted to stop the conversation, push it away. 

But he’d done that too often.

He knew he had. 

He couldn’t be the spoiled younger son anymore.

Kíli swallowed. “But?”

“But I’m not sure I would have said anything, at least not like that, if there wasn’t something in me, pushing me forward and just . . .” Fíli looked at him. “Angry and bitter.”

And that wasn’t Fíli.

Fíli could be angry, but only with cause. And he was never bitter. Not even against Thorin, when Thorin grew harder and harder on him, and Kíli thought if he’d been in Fíli’s place he might have started hating their uncle. Fíli would just shake his head (year after year) and say, _He’s trying to prepare me to be king, Kíli._

_Doesn’t mean he can’t love you,_ Kíli would think, though he’d never dared to say it. No one ever spoke of the pressure Thorin put on Fíli out loud. It was their family’s best-known secret.

“Then that’s not you,” Kíli said. “That’s not who you are.” He took a steadying breath. “What . . . do you want-” he stopped, started again, because that wasn’t right, “what do _we_ do from here?”

Fíli considered a moment. “Gandalf has some idea what’s going on. He asked me about my thoughts, about my dreams-”

Kíli started a little. “Dreams?” he asked.

_Images of ravens and strange arms around him, heavy armor and-_

Fíli nodded. “I’ve had odd dreams. Like memories, but they’re not real. He asked me about that. When I managed to say yes, he told me to keep those who know me best close. Balin and Dwalin,” he smiled and his eyes softened, “and you.”

Kíli felt a flush of pleasure at that. “Well, you did do that.”

A flash of dimples, and a spark in Fíli’s eyes that Kíli hadn’t seen in far too long, and Fíli slowly let his eyes move down Kíli’s body. They hadn’t bothered to get dressed yet, and needed to bathe, and Fíli’s eyes lingered on the blankets bunched over Kíli’s thighs. “I did. Though I’m not sure if he meant this close,” and oh, he was _teasing_ , and it had been so long.

Kíli grinned and wiggled before pouncing forward, managing not to get tangled in his own legs as he pinned Fíli to be bed. “I could be closer still,” he said, because maybe he should be too tired for this but he wasn’t, not with Fíli smiling at him like that. 

“Kíli, we have to talk to Gandalf-”

Kíli kissed him once on the mouth, and then tugged gently at a bead with his teeth. “This is important,” he argued, voice muffled.

“Kíli!”

“ _Very_ important,” Kíli was grinning, a flash of lightness in his chest, and the rough texture of Fíli’s beard was wonderful against his lips as he started kissing his way down to Fíli’s throat. “Practically medicinal.”

By which he meant: _We have time. Just a few more minutes, so I can hold on to your smile when those thoughts in your head take it away from you. I need this. You need this._

Fili tangled his hands in Kíli’s hair and arched against Kíli’s mouth and made a soft, approving noise that Kíli would tuck close to his heart and keep there for any dark days ahead.

\-------

Gandalf was already gone.

Bard told them. The Men’s encampment was in the ruins of Dale, with those elves who remained outside the Mirkwood just beyond. They didn’t have to go as far as the elves before the lord of Dale calmly informed them that the wizard had left with the light, leaving a message that Bilbo would leave in two days’ time, should Fíli want to send dwarves with the elves’ party.

“He said there was much he had to do, but didn’t explain exactly what that meant. It seems a wizard never has time to rest.”

Fíli didn’t take the news well.

“Rest,” he snarled. “Why should he have rest, with all he’s done?!”

He shook, a minute trembling in his hands, and Kíli finally grabbed him and pulled him aside, behind broken columns where dwarves and men once mixed freely. “Talk to me,” he whispered, his sharp ears alert for anyone walking by. 

“I had Gandalf right there yesterday!” Fíli answered, and his eyes were wide but his voice was furious. “I had him _right there_ , and I could have demanded answers, but I didn’t!”

“I don’t think Gandalf is someone you can demand answers from.”

“I ran.” Fíli spat the word, like an insult, like _coward._ “I ran away, and now my people will suffer for it!” Fíli lashed out, slammed his fist into the pillar. The broken stone crumbled and fell away. 

Kíli reached out and caught that fist, cradled it in his hands. He felt . . . tender. It was a strange feeling, almost disturbing, because it wasn’t . . . he didn’t . . . it didn’t quite feel like himself. 

_I am your helpmeet and your heir._

But he allowed it, because Fíli’s fist unclenched between his fingers, and he could raise the skinned knuckles to his lips and press a kiss there. “Gandalf is an ancient being of immense power and knowledge,” he said, and again the words felt odd on his tongue, formal and strange. “We cannot expect him to communicate all with us.”

Fíli glared at him, but he didn’t pull his hand away. “This is about the safety of my people, Kíli. They need a king they can trust, not someone who’s half-mad.” He looked at his hand in Kíli’s, turned his wrist. “It’s about _your_ safety. I won’t have you hurt because of whatever’s happening to me.”

Kili glared at him, but his mouth was smiling because this was Fíli, worrying over Kíli’s safety. There was no hint of anyone else here, in Fíli’s fierce scowl, in his selfless concern. This was his brother. “I can handle myself,” he said. “I told you I won’t let you push me away, and I meant it. When have you ever known me to do something I didn’t want to?” 

Fíli opened his mouth, and for a brief moment there was a familiar curve of sarcastic humor to his mouth that made Kíli want to kiss him and pinch him simultaneously. 

He kissed him before Fíli could say whatever he was thinking.

“I’m with you,” he said, pressing his forehead to Fíli’s. “I’m with you, Fíli.”

Fíli sighed. “It’s . . . We have to know what’s happening to me. And Gandalf knows something. Maybe it would be best if you went after him-”

_It is my duty to obey you_ , Kíli thought.

He jerked away. That thought-

That was wrong.

Fíli’s voice, steady and strong and _I belong with my brother_ , as he turned his back on his uncle and his future and his mountain.

His duty was to support Fíli. Not to obey him.

“No. Gandalf said to keep me close. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll start looking here.” Kíli didn’t step away, wouldn’t step away, because something in his chest, in his belly, told him to _obey and go_ and he would not do it. “We’re in Erebor. There’s the libraries. There’s Dain. There’s Balin.”

“. . . No one can know there’s something wrong,” Fíli said doubtfully, but he wasn’t arguing about Kíli going, and his hand rose and rested on Kíli’s neck again, stroked over his pulse. “We’ll have to be quiet. And you have to promise me-” his voice caught a moment. 

“What?” _Anything, anything._

Fíli took a step back, but didn’t lower his hand, didn’t stop meeting his eyes. His brother, strong and straight and handsome before him. “If you think I’m dangerous-”

“You’re not-”

Fíli tightened his grip, just enough to silence Kíli, to give reign to that quiet compulsion to _be silent and listen_. “Promise me, if you think I’m too dangerous, you will take the crown, and serve our people as king.”

Kíli shook his head. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he was always the spare, always, even when they were young and Fíli got on his nerves, when jealousy settled low in his gut, the thought of being king was unimaginable. And now Fíli was-Fíli was-

Fíli was stitched into every beat of his heart. 

“You have to, Kíli. Promise me. I can’t invite war and death to our doorstep. I need to know you’ll help me keep our people safe.” A gentle tug, lips brushing him. “I need to know you’ll help me keep you safe.” A breath. “I can’t become like Thorin.”

“I promise,” Kíli said, because he did, he did, he would not let their people suffer. “But I’ll do everything I can to bring you back, if you do.”

Fíli smiled at him, and there was a hint of it in his eyes. “I know you will,” he said, and the faith in his voice humbled Kíli as his brother stepped away.

Humbled and terrified.


	12. Chapter 12

**XII**

Fíli dreamed of thrones.

He dreamed of Thorin’s, back home in Ered Luin-

Not home, shouldn’t feel like home, but it was, the rough stone of it, simple and solid and plain but strong and perfectly crafted.

Of his own, tucked beside it, where Dis sat more often than he did.

Of Dis, sitting now in Thorin’s Halls, looking over their people and wanting to see her sons and bury her brother, but trapped by love and responsibility. 

Of Thror’s, grand and arching and solitary, with no room for a Consort or an heir.

Of a throne of solid gold lined with shimmering mithril, as something rumbled in the deep.

**TWELVE**

Fíli had always known there would be endless work when they came to Erebor. Thorin may have told their people this was a grand adventure, that the halls of their ancestors would be waiting for them and strewn with gold, but he had sat down with Fíli and Dwalin and Balin and talked about the realities of reclaiming a home long lost. He said that there would be dead in the halls, possibly the corpse of a dragon (a vain wish they clung to without cause), that the great furnaces would be cold and the mountain would be a land of death, that there would be years of work to bring Erebor back to her former glory.

“But we will reclaim it,” he said, with a steady determination it was easy to forget now, after the gold-sickness, after I will have war, after turning on their kind, gentle Hobbit. 

After lying on the battlefield at his brother’s feet and knowing he would soon walk alone into the Halls of his Maker.

But Fíli fought to remember it, over the next harrowing week. The days were filled with plans and meetings and hundreds of dwarves long-dead. The elder members of the Company insisted on helping at first, but the day Fíli and Kíli (Kíli, Kíli always on his heels as he’d promised, a shadow no one questioned) found Gloin kneeling among a group of children’s bodies, holding a small doll in his hand and weeping, Kíli gently led their cousin away.

The child was another cousin, one they never knew, one Gloin recognized in a flash of memory brought on by the delicate embroidery on the dress and the sweet likeness of her doll.

In the end, Balin, Oin, and Gloin were directed to duties well away from the bodies, and most of the clean-up was handled by Dain’s soldiers under Fíli’s watchful eye. Dwalin was asked to go as well but refused. “I will be where you are,” he told Fíli, and Fíli couldn’t fight that sort of loyalty.

Kíli worried that it was too much stress, but it wasn’t; whatever twisted in his chest was silent in the presence of the bodies, seemed to approve that Fíli insisted on attending each of the quiet ceremonies as the souls of the dead were returned to the mountain. 

Three days after Gandalf’s latest disappearance, Bilbo Baggins left the Company with Tauriel, the captain of the guard who saved his Kíli. This the voice in Fíli didn’t approve of – it growled and snapped at the thought of the Arkenstone leaving the mountain, of any treasure passing from dwarf hands. But Fíli felt only hope at the sight of Bilbo’s smile, and of Bofur and Bifur at his side as he rode away from Erebor and back to his warm hobbit hole where he belonged.

“He was a brave and honest companion,” Kíli said, though the words sounded strange and formal on his brother’s tongue.

“More than we deserved,” Fíli answered, though the thought came _Nothing is more than a king of Dwarves deserves._

There was more to do. There were messages to send back to Ered Luin, the separation of the treasure, allocation of clothes. Fíli saw to it that through everything the Company remained in control and in command, and with time they began to smile again when he walked in, instead of letting their gaze skitter away as they bowed their heads.

There was one pleasant surprise among all their troubles, however:

The ravens. 

The great Roäc, the elderly raven who recognized Thorin as king of Erebor and offered his services to take messages to Dain, perished in the battle for Erebor, crying out and diving with the Eagles until he was lost on the blade of an orc. Without Roäc to lead the others, Balin and Ori were concerned that when Dain left, they would have no way to send messages to Ered Luin, where plans were underway for a great migration in spring. It could take months to convince the birds of Ravenhill, half-wild now, to accept a new king. 

But it was not a king they accepted.

It was Kíli.

The great aviary was full of detritus and droppings, and the ravens had all but deserted it. But one sleek black bird greeted them as they climbed the steps, throwing back her head in a knocking call.

“Oh!” Kíli said at Fíli’s elbow, his voice full of delight. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Consort,” she croaked.

Fíli felt his eyebrows rise, felt humor – it had been so long – bubble in his chest. “Consort is it?” he asked, and he could almost ignore _The line of Durin will die if you do not put this folly aside._

“She’s said hello before,” Kíli protested, pink at the tips of his ears. “We were…in bed the last time, so she’s…she’s confused.” Then he paused thoughtfully. “I think . . . I think maybe I saw her in the tent, too, and when we walked around the camp.”

“Yes,” the raven answered, as she hopped from foot to foot and watched him with dark and wise eyes. “When you woke, I came.”

_They should report to the king, not his heir, the thing whispered_ , but Fíli couldn’t blame the ravens for being so taken with Kíli when he was. Pride belonged here, not resentment.

Fíli pointedly embraced his pride and smiled as he bowed to the bird. “I am Fíli,” he said, “king of Erebor.”

_Kings do not lower their heads to anyone._

The raven studied him for a moment. “Minn,” she said, but she immediately turned back to Kíli. “Consort,” she repeated, “the aviary.”

Her dismissal made Fíli’s stomach twist.

Thorin had never bowed to anyone, and he was seen as a king. The voice was right, he hadn’t made it clear, he hadn’t behaved as he should, and now this raven didn’t even know him for what he was.

Kíli took a hesitant step forward and lifted a hand, turned it, curling his fingers with a new, unconscious grace. “You want me to clean it.”

“Yes.”

_How does he know how to speak to them?!_

_Why do they call him Consort?_

_They obey only the king, they obey only the consort, not the king’s brother._

_Only my-_

“It’ll take time,” Kíli said with a frown, “and we have messages to send a long way.”

“Know the way,” Minn said dismissively. “Have followed. You will clean.” She nipped his finger and stepped onto his wrist. “You will feed.”

_This isn’t right. They shouldn’t be responding to him._

Kíli smiled, and Fíli fought down the voice – jealousy or anger or confusion or a terrifying sort of disgust, all tangled together, because he would have that smile and hold it as long as he may. “We can get help for you. Dain doesn’t leave for a week yet. We can talk to his Keepers.” 

Kíli grinned. “Will that work?” he asked Minn.

She studied him, tilted her head, hopped back to look him up and down. She seemed a demanding spouse, looking for reasons to straighten Kíli’s clothes and put him to rights. “Messages,” she agreed. “We will follow.”

Fíli did as he promised, arranging for a group of four of Dain’s soldiers, including his captain of the ravens, to assist Kíli in cleaning out the aviary and preparing for the return of the ravens. Kíli resisted at first, insisting that he had promised to remain by Fíli’s side, arguing when Fíli said he could be trusted on his own for a day or two, pushing back and just being Kíli in a way that made the something rage and Fíli grin to himself, where no one could see.

They compromised, finally, on two hours a day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, when Kíli could go up and see the ravens and make sure the work was being handled to Minn’s exacting standards. Fíli would spend those hours working, always with Dwalin at his back, usually with another member of the remaining Company at his side.

The mountain seemed quiet without Bofur’s singing or Bifur’s muttering or Bilbo’s whisper-soft steps. But it would fill up soon, when their people arrived and Erebor was truly a kingdom again.

It was Fíli’s honor and responsibility to provide them a safe home to return to.

\----

The issue of Fíli’s own problem was a much more delicate subject than that of managing the mountain. The bodies were cleared and laid to rest within five days, and Dain was speaking of returning home ( _Good_ , whispered the voice in his mind, _distance will dull his blade and his claim_ ) when Fíli finally asked Balin about his injuries.

About their injuries.

He asked as they wound up the stairway to the aviary to meet Kíli, Dwalin ever on Fíli’s heels. He thought to approach the topic gently, but he all but blurted it out in the end.

_Stay silent, stay close, don’t show weakness. Never show weakness._

“I was injured.”

Balin jerked to a stop, looking back over his shoulder. Behind Fíli (Fíli safely tucked between them, as if Dwalin was afraid he’d fall down the stairs like a Man with no sense of the stone at all), Dwalin made a sharp sound, like a desperate bid for air.

Balin almost turned away, but he stopped himself, twisted on the stair and looked down. “Aye, lad. You were injured.”

“But you’re well enough now,” Dwalin growled, prodding Fíli in the ribs. “There’s no reason to walk about questioning it.”

Silence. 

“There is,” Fíli argued, but his tone was gentle. He could hear Kíli now, the low rumble of his voice, though he couldn’t make out the words. “But we can keep going. Kíli’s involved, after all.”

Dwalin sighed, but Balin only studied him a moment, and Fíli knew that expression from childhood accidents and well-presented lessons: a unique mixture of concern and pride. His tutor – his advisor – turned and began pushing up the last few steps. “Your injuries were grave,” he said.

“How grave?”

_Should be dead._

_Shouldn’t be here._

_Should just be-_

“I’m no healer-” soft winter sunlight flooded the steps as they reached the aviary, and there was Kíli standing with light on his hair, smiling at the line of ravens on the railing. “I don’t pretend to be an expert on injuries.

Fíli took a breath. “You were there, Balin. I need to know, because Dain’s soldiers are afraid of us, and Bofur could barely look at me before he left.” And it had hurt, it had hurt, those warm eyes and that easy smile wiped out and replaced with uncertainty and something almost like anger. Kíli turned at his voice, the curve of his mouth faltering as he heard Fíli’s next words: “I saw Kíli’s wounds, or what was left of them. I know there were arrows-” his voice broke, faltered.

He had traced the scars with his fingers and pressed kisses to them and known his brother was not meant to be in their bed, alive and well. He had whispered apologies for the night he first saw them and turned Kíli away instead of holding him close. He vowed with his lips to never do such a thing again, and Kíli shivered under him with forgiveness he didn’t deserve.

“Your injuries were grave,” Dwalin interrupted, his voice harsh but something in his eyes that felt wrong, felt like worship, felt like-

_The wonder due the greatest of Dwarven kings._

“But people will learn to take this for the miracle it is, given time.”

Balin glanced at Dwalin, calmer as always. “A miracle it may be,” he murmured, “though perhaps just elves doing more good than we thought.”

Kíli spoke then, quiet, with Minn on his shoulder. “You think the elves healed us by accident?” He looked at Fíli, stepped forward and reached out to touch Fíli’s arm, to slide his hand down and tangle their fingers together. “When I woke,” he said, his eyes steady but his fingers trembling, “you said they were leaving Fíli to die.”

“It was a miracle!” Dwalin all but roared. “Mahal himself restored what was lost to us. I saw you on the battlefield, Fíli,” his voice caught, a sharp sound of pain, and Fíli wondered for the first time who carried him from the field.

But he didn’t have to ask, not with Dwalin’s eyes so wild with grief; he knew. 

“You would not have lived, had our Maker not wished it so.”

Fíli wanted to reach out, wanted to touch Dwalin’s hand or just – wrap his arms around him and hold on a moment, as he had when he was a child and didn’t have the sense to know that he wasn’t meant to run around hugging great warriors. But they were grown now, and Fíli was a king and Dwalin was his captain of the guard, and even Thorin had not been open with the deep affection he held for their cousin.

“There are no indications Mahal dabbles in our lives, brother,” Balin argued, though he did lay a hand on the thick wrist and squeezed. “Though there are stories of kings who have survived great injuries.” He turned to Fíli, his eyes sharp and assessing. “Is that what you’re asking for? An explanation?”

“There must be one.”

_But you fight it._

“There are…there are tales of dwarves who survived terrible wounds,” Balin said slowly. “But no reason for them. It is said Nain I’s throat was nearly cleaved in two in a battle with the Balrog, but he survived to be killed in another. And of course Durin IV at the Siege of Barad-dur was thought lost by some of his companions only to rise again from the battle. “ He glanced at his brother. “There have always been those who attributed such miracles to Mahal’s hand, keeping his children alive through times of trouble.” A ghost of a smile touched his eyes. “I dare say, now would be such a time.”

“But I-” Fíli began, but he couldn’t say it, couldn’t put into words: _why would Mahal save me instead of Thorin? And only to drive me mad with voices in my head?_

Kíli had convinced Fíli to bring Balin and Dwalin somewhat into their confidence, but Fíli would not budge on this.

Dwarves would not accept a mad king. Not a young and untried one, anyway.

Arms slid around him, strong and uncompromising, Kíli at his side and refusing to budge. Fíli saw the widening of Balin’s eyes, heard the soft, almost pleased snort Dwalin offered as his form of approval. 

He took a slow breath.

“Did I die, Balin?”

Balin’s jaw dropped. Fíli had never seen such an expression on his cousin’s face; his younger self would have been immensely pleased to be the cause of it. “People don’t die and come back, lad.”

Kíli froze.

Fíli felt it against the back, the sudden tightening of muscles, the little intake of breath.

But why-

Kíli pulled away, and there was false cheer in his voice when he asked, “Have you seen this statue? The ravens are mad for it!” 

He motioned to a life-size sculpture cut from the stone. It was a female, her braided beard and hair studded with gems and a large saucer in her hands. “I think they like the gems, though they call her ‘the lady.’” He turned his smile on Balin, but his eyes were tight and his hands clenched. “Do you know anything about her?”

Balin and Dwalin exchanged a doubtful look, but Fíli moved forward to see. She was not a great beauty, only a kind-faced female in simple robes. She was smiling. It was an exquisite carving, for all that it was plain, but it made for a poor attempt at changing the subject.

But if Kíli needed a distraction now, Fíli would allow it. “Balin?”

“I don’t . . . not immediately. I believe she’s called the Lady of the Ravens, but that’s all I know. I think I dimly remember she…may be from Moria; that she was brought here with the ravens by Thrain I.” A pause. “I can . . . look into it, if you like. Or have Ori do it.”

Kíli’s smile softened a bit as Minn cackled to herself and flew to the statue’s saucer. “Water!” she demanded, and Kíli moved to a pump in the wall to obey.

“Thank you,” Fíli said, watching his brother’s hands as Kíli caught water in a bucket and brought it to tip into the stone saucer of the Lady of the Ravens. “And the other matter as well.”

Kíli’s shoulders stiffened.

Fíli reached out a hand-

-as feet pounded up the staircase and Nori appeared, breathless.

“You’re needed,” he said abruptly, as was his way. “In the Great Hall.”

_Where those females and children of Men are sullying the caverns of the Mountain._

“Why?” 

“Best you come see for yourself.”

Fíli hesitated.

Balin was worried, and so was Dwalin, and Kíli seemed jumpy and upset. 

_Men in the mountain._

“I’m on my way.” He turned and, instinctively, wrapped a hand around Kíli’s neck and tugged him down. 

He memorized the feel of that pulse under his fingers, against his lips, as he kissed his brother farewell. 

As always, always, for one precious moment, there was calm.

When he pulled away, Kíli’s smile was cautious, but pleased.

“You’ll be here?”

“A little longer,” Kíli said, then quieter, “you’ll be all right?”

Fíli winked. “I’m fine. You and Balin can stay up here and talk ravens.” He turned on his heel, ignored Dwalin’s raised eyebrows and Nori’s sharp bark of a laugh, and followed Nori at a sharp trot into the darkness.

He would kiss his brother before all the Company one by one, for the spark of joy it gave him to see Kíli so pleased.

\----

His calm.

His calm was gone in an instant-

_**Fury**_

Blinding, splashes of white and red across his vision-

_**Treachery!** _

The woman of Lake-town laughed and called to each other as their children hacked away chunks of gold from the glimmering statue of Durin their father in the Great Hall.

Anger swelled in Fíli’s chest

_Kíli-_

But Kíli wasn’t there, and Fíli began to drown.


	13. Chapter 13

**XIII**

Kíli dreamed of firelight.

His father’s face flickering as he told stories after their first hunt, warm beneath an autumn sky.

Their home in Ered Luin, so close to the surface that rain splashed down on the embers as his mother cursed softly and his uncle spoke of Erebor and proper design.

The reflection of flames on the water as Lake-town burned; knowing it was their fault, their fault, but so tired still, still weak--

Fires dancing so deep in the mountain that without them even dwarves would be lost in the dark. 

Fire inside the mountain.

**THIRTEEN**

Kíli couldn’t quite bring himself to set Balin to work scrubbing raven droppings from the walls, though he’d been pleased to find he had no such compunction when it came to putting Dain’s raven keepers to the task. He’d overseen more than participated in the clean-up of the aviary over the past week, by and large because he hated to leave Fíli.

He hated it now, but there was lingering warmth in his belly that made it better. That had been his Fíli, kissing him, not whatever haunted him. The Fíli who curled in bed with him, the Fíli who moaned under his fingers and traced kisses down his chest and slept in a tangle under the blankets in their bed. Fíli was doing better. He was in control. 

Fíli had always been stronger than he gave himself credit for. Stronger than Thorin ever gave him credit for. 

“Do you know what you’re about, then?” came Balin’s voice, and Kíli shook himself from his reverie. He’d been so deep in thought that he’s forgotten Balin was in the room. 

“What do you mean?”

The right side of Balin’s mouth twisted up into a smile, wry and familiar. “I think you know, but if you want me to spell it out for you: do you and your brother know what you’re about? Are you planning to be the dwarf at his side as king, or are you just . . .” he spread his hands, “dabbling?”

Kíli’s expression was incredulous. “You think I would just . . . with Fíli?!” he demanded. Dwarves weren’t Men. They didn’t play with affection. “Or that Fíli would with me? _Fíli_?” Who worried every day about being the king their people deserved, who worried every moment about keeping Kíli safe? If Balin implied something like that of Fíli, Kíli wouldn’t be responsible for what he had to say about it-

But, “No, I didn’t think so,” Balin said calmly. “Perhaps I’ve just become an old romantic, but if ever a pair was crafted for each other, it is the two of you. It is no great surprise, now that I see it. Less than all these ravens being in love with you, really.” His smile spread into a little grin for a moment as one of the smaller ravens settled delicately on Kíli’s head. The little scratch of claws in his hair felt like a shadow of something familiar, something he should remember but couldn’t. “But there will be issues to deal with because of your choice,” Balin continued, the smile fading slowly as he spoke. “It will mean a king, a consort, and an heir who won’t be having children to carry on the line.”

Kíli’s brows drew together as he waited for a sense of guilt, of urgency, a sense that this was wrong and they should put the good of the people before themselves.

But none came.

There was only a peculiar sort of peace at the thought that there would not be heirs from him or Fíli. 

“I know,” he said slowly, “but I will be here to help him. That’s what I’m meant to do. Not to mother children, but to stand beside him when he needs it, to bring him back to himself when he starts to slip too deeply into the role of king, or when he starts to think too much like Thorin.” He ignored Balin’s sharp, surprised look. “That’s what he needs. That’s something only I can do.”

Balin made a soft sound that Kíli couldn’t interpret, but his eyes were kind. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed, lad.” He patted Kíli’s hand. “And remember, you both have the Company to support you, as well as the formidable support of your mother when she arrives.”

Kíli didn’t try to fight down the grin at the thought of seeing his mother again, of Dis as mother of the king under the mountain. 

But it would be months before there were more dwarves in Erebor, even with the help of their own ravens sending messages.

“Now then, prince of Erebor,” Balin said officiously, “tell me about this aviary of yours, and these wonderful ravens.”

Kíli did, with Minn adding thoughts and the occasional correction as he explained how the ravens would be returned to their former glory with the rest of the mountain.

He was carefully explaining the need for fresh water at all times when feet pounded up the stairwell. The steps were hurried and light – too light, no dwarf ran like this, not even Fíli – and before Kíli could respond Balin was in front of him with his sword drawn. 

“Balin-” No one would run like this if they wanted to attack them in secret. Already he could hear the labored breath, high pitched and almost panicked.

Balin lifted his hand and this was not his kindly tutor; this was a warrior defending his king’s heir, the dwarf he had already accepted as his king’s consort. “Stay back.”

But when the panting face arrived, it was no Man or Elf hoping to attack Kíli alone in the aviary. It was Bard’s eldest daughter, cheeks pink and eyes wide as wisps of hair stuck to her temples with sweat. “Kíli!” she cried, “Please!”

Kíli stepped around Balin, because this was a face he remembered from those terrible, fevered hours when he thought he would never see Erebor. She had been kind to him then. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice resonant and steady.

“It’s-” the girl’s eyes darted to Balin and back to Kíli, but she refused to back down. Kíli knew that look; Fíli had it, when Kíli was hurt and Thorin would have had Fíli leave him behind. “It’s Fíli. He’s driving us from the mountain!”

Kíli stared at her. Something cold, so cold and heavy and hard in his stomach, in his fingertips. 

_I left him alone._

“What?” he demanded. “Why?”

“The statue. One of the statues. Some of the woman were scraping gold from it, and he just – he’s gone – he’s furious, he’s threatening to kill us if we don’t go, calling us thieves, calling us rats-” there were tears in her eyes, anger and frustration and sorrow, and Kíli knew then that her brother and sister were still down there, and she would not leave without the prince of Erebor at her side as long as they were in danger.

“I’m coming,” he said, brushing at his shoulder, ignoring Minn’s sharp cry as he dislodged her. “Let me ahead of you, I can get there faster. Follow with Balin.”

Sigrid touched his sleeve, just once, as she stepped away from the stairway.

“See she’s not hurt,” Kíli ordered Balin, before he began the mad dash down the steps, trusting only the calling of the stone to his feet to keep him from falling headlong to his death.

\---

He heard Fíli before he saw him.

A rumble of sound, too deep for his brother, growling and furious, and over it another voice, arguing.

“I will have them out of this mountain!”

“They can just return-”

“Return the gold, you would say? Only to steal it again! We offer them comfort and safety and they repay us with thievery! Men!” and oh, he said the word like a curse, like Thorin said _elves_ , and something twisted in Kíli’s chest. 

He rounded into the Great Hall, his boots slipping on the sea of hardened gold – didn’t call to him, didn’t hold him like the stone – to chaos and tears.

The women and children of Laketown were gathered at the base of the great statue of Durin, huddled together as if they were watching their homes burn and crash into the water all over again. They were surrounded by a handful of Dain’s soldiers and children were sobbing and their mothers were holding them, and there was _begging_ –and over it all-

Over it all-

Fíli.

His voice resounded through the hall, and there was something in his eyes, something cold and distant and

_I left him alone._

“I will not have thieves in the mountain,” Fíli said, and that was not his voice, those were not his eyes. “The only reason you still have your hands and your heads is that you don’t know dwarf laws in these matters.” 

He was standing on the walkway above the hall; no, not on the walkway but up on the heavy stone bannister, one hand on the supports, feet apart and glaring down at the women below.

He had never looked so much like Thorin.

“Come down, Fíli, come down,” this voice was softer, and it took a moment for Kíli to make out Dwalin behind his brother, standing on the proper walkway. “They meant no harm.”

Fíli ignored him, acted as if he hadn’t spoken at all, and now he had never _acted_ more like Thorin.

… _Thorin_.

“I will have you out of the mountain by nightfall.”

“We have nowhere to go!” called out one woman. “It wasn’t all of us!”

“Yes,” another cried, her voice hopeful, “and we can gather all the gold and return it-”

“Until you steal it again,” Fíli cut her off, and Kíli scanned the room, tried to find the way upstairs. He spotted it, there, in a corner, and he ran for it, feet light sliding across the gold like half-formed ice under his boots.

He heard the voice that wasn’t Fíli’s giving orders, sharp and professional, as he skidded around the corner and ran toward Dwalin. Dwalin was behind Fíli, his hand hovering just over the thick material of Fíli’s coat as if terrified Fíli would fall and be lost to them through sheer stubbornness after surviving the impossible. 

“Grab him,” Kíli ordered, and Dwalin, clearly startled, did as he said. 

Dwalin didn’t pull though, and Fíli didn’t waver. He only stood and looked down at the sobbing women as they gathered the meager belongings they’d tucked away at the bases of the columns. “Come down,” Kíli said, and he meant it to be sharp, an order, but it twisted on his tongue and came out soothing.

Fíli looked over his shoulder. “They were scraping gold from the walls.”

“Of course they were. They have nothing, and it was _there_.”

Fíli’s eyes narrowed, and there was something – something dark in the irises, where there should have been only their mother’s blue. “They took it from the statue,” he hissed, and why should Fíli care about one statue over anything else in the mountain? Fíli, who had looked with horror over the treasure of Erebor and their uncle half buried in it, who had spoken of getting the treasure out of the mountain in case the curse lingered upon it.

“What statue?” Kíli asked, stepping forward and reaching out a hand. “Come down here and talk to me.”

Fíli’s gaze flicked over him but he didn’t move. His hand tightened on the stone. “The one of Durin,” he said evenly. “The one which honors our ultimate father, the founder of our race.” His foot shifted and he started to turn away. “They might as well spit on us.”

 _This is not Fíli_.

“They didn’t know that,” Kíli said, even and calm and everything he wasn’t feeling, because his heart was pounding and he felt sick, but his voice was not his own. “Come down, my king.”

Fíli stiffened. “Ignorance is no excuse for robbery and disrespect!” He raised his voice again, roared into the air, “ _I will have these Men out of the Mountain and back in the dirt where they belong_!”

 _Leave him be. He is king,_ Kíli thought, and it was this, this thought, that made him act. He had always been a dwarf of action, sometimes rash, sometimes reckless; he didn’t soothe and stroke and obey. 

He had promised his brother he would help him, and so he would.

Kíli surged forward and grabbed Fíli’s coat in both hands, pulling him off the barricade, keeping him from crashing to the floor with his own body.

“Let go of me!”

“No, Fíli. I can’t. I promised.” Kíli set his jaw, held on as Fíli twisted in his grip and the coat went slack – his brother had slid free of it in one smooth move. 

Fílis hand twitched to his waist, to the sword he wore strapped across his lower back, and Kíli knew if weapons were drawn between them in this moment, he would lose. But worse, Dwalin would have to either defend him or attack Fíli, and he would not ask that of the most faithful dwarf he knew.

“Leave us alone, Dwalin.”

Dwalin snarled under his breath, an emphatic denial, but Kíli didn’t look away from Fíli’s eyes. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine.” He spoke slowly, carefully, as if to a frightened pony, “Go downstairs. Have Dain’s soldiers move the women and children to one of the side rooms we’ve cleared of bodies. Divide them up if you have to.”

Fíli shook. His hands shook and his eyes narrowed, but the line of his jaw was as stone and he didn’t speak.

He was fighting it.

Dwalin hesitated, looking between them. “You’ll hurt each other,” he ground out. “You’re in no shape to fight now. I’ll not have you undo this miracle for a squabble over Men.”

Kíli let go of Fíli’s gaze, met Dwalin’s. “Go, Dwalin,” he said, and it was not the request of a princeling, but the order of the heir of Erebor. 

Dwalin glared him down, searched his face – and turned on his heel, his back straight but his hands fisted at his sides as he left them to the balcony.

Kíli stared after him – he shouldn’t have, because it meant he wasn’t ready when the blow fell, a shoulder slamming into his chest and knocking him back against the wall without warning, without one of Fíli’s wild war cries to prepare him. 

His head cracked against the stone and he cried out, dazed for a moment as Fíli’s smaller body pinned him to the wall. 

“You will not _question me_ ,” Fíli growled, and it hurt, his elbow in Kíli’s ribs nearly stealing Kíli’s breath away.

_Let him, let him._

Kíli fought back. He knew that body, had trained with Fíli since childhood. They had skills that complimented each other when fighting as a team, but they also knew each other’s weaknesses; Kíli used his greater height and longer legs to swing his foot against Fíli’s knee, twisting and landing a hard shove against his brother’s collarbone. 

Fíli buckled and Kíli nearly choked on guilt.

“ _I will show you your place_!” Fíli recovered and attacked, but wrong, his movements unfamiliar, too slow and circling instead of standing his ground. Kíli took the blow – hard, to his jaw – rolled with it. The wrongness of it surprised Kili, but didn't cost him, as Fíli didn’t duck the return blow as he should have, sharp to his shoulder. 

_Submit_!

Kíli fought.

He fought the brother who held his heart, and he drew blood first, at the corner of Fíli’s mouth. But he shouldn’t have been able to, they should have been almost at an impasse, Fíli’s tactics vs. Kíli’s height and reach, but they weren’t. Kíli struck and blocked and spun, nearly knocked Fíli down, cornered him, and Fíli’s eyes were dark and cold-

“Stop this, Fíli!” be begged. “Just listen to me!”

But Fíli didn’t answer now, didn’t speak, only wiped blood from his lips and circled Kíli, eyes flickering over him. If Fíli had spoken, if he’d snarled or roared or danced as Fíli did when he fought, Kíli would have gone down. But he didn’t, he didn’t, and this wasn’t Fíli, and Fíli would never forgive himself if this _thing_ killed Kíli in his body.

But he couldn’t stand to keep hurting Fíli, either, and all he had were words.

“I love you. I love you. I said I’d help you. Let me help you.”

_Bow your head!_

It was when Fíli started to rally, when Kíli’s feet disappeared under him and he slammed to the stone, that Kíli realized what was wrong.

Fíli was fighting like someone _tall._

He misjudged his punches and didn’t move out of the way fast enough because he was moving like Thorin – heavier, slower, expecting to be able to shift a little away and avoid a return blow when Fíli would have all but danced out of reach, taking a chance every time he drew close because of his size.

 _Fighting like Thorin_ , Kíli thought, and it came with an idea – a glimmer of something that turned his stomach and pressed at the back of his throat.

_Thorin?_

He went limp. Just a moment, horrified at his own thoughts, and Fíli took advantage, throwing himself on top of Kíli, pinning Kíli’s legs with his thighs and lifting an arm to strike.

He could get loose, he could, but he’d have to hurt Fíli to do it, have to-

“I can’t hurt you,” he whispered, and it was his voice but not his voice, a statement of fact, “I can’t hurt you anymore.”

Fíli froze.

Fíli froze, but he didn’t soften. He didn’t roll off, apologize, tear himself up for daring to touch the person he loved best in all the world. He didn’t look _sorry_ , he looked _confused._

“What?” he hissed, and there was blood on his teeth.

“I cannot hurt you,” soft, and Kíli went completely still except for his mouth, for the tilt of his head to watch that beloved face. “I am your helpmeet and your heir,” he breathed, again, again, an instinct.

Fíli stared at him, brows drawn tight, eyes dark. “It’s impossible,” he said, but Kíli didn’t know what he meant, could only watch him and hope.

His fist lowered.

“Senna?” Fíli whispered.

Kíli stared at him, felt nothing, nothing but- “What?”

Fíli shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Kíli reached out, greatly daring, and took that fist in his hands, wrapped his fingers around the icy wrist until he could feel it – fast and hard, but slowing, slowing, the pounding of blood through his brother’s veins. 

Kíli felt his breathing change, soaking in that rhythm.

“I don’t know,” Fíli said again, and there he was, his brows lifting, his eyes softening, his voice – light and pained. “Kíli. I hit you.”

“No,” Kíli said, and there were tears at the corners of his eyes but they didn’t fall. He ached, but he would live. “No, it wasn’t you.” That twist in his stomach again, the image of Fíli fighting.

Wrong, all wrong. 

And it was mad, it was mad, based on nothing but children’s stories told around campfires. And yet…

Kili swallowed as gentle fingers stroked along his tender jaw.

“But I think I might know who it was.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Fourteen**

Fíli stared at Kili, his brother silent and bruised and pinned by Fíli’s body.

He felt terribly unbalanced and confused at the sight of Kíli sprawled on stone.

He remembered the fight.

He remembered the anger.

He remembered it like a deep injury in his chest, open and bleeding and infected, but dulled now to a scar; a memory of a memory.

“Kíli,” he whispered, because Kíli forgave him, it was there in his hands and his voice, but he didn’t deserve it and he wasn’t sure he wanted it. It would be safer for Kíli to push him away, to lock him up-

“It’s all right,” Kíli said again, and what had happened to his playful brother who sang and threw dishes, who teased and laughed and laid bets on hitting elves with rolls. Who was this serious, thoughtful adult lying on his back and offering forgiveness when there should be none? 

Fíli’s heart ached with the loss of his laughing, mischievous Kíli, but burned with love for the Kíli who watched him now with dark, worried eyes. 

“We can talk about it later,” Kíli said soothingly, tilting his cheek into Fíli’s fingers (there would be bruises, made by Fíli’s hands, and Fíli wanted to scream and cry and crack into pieces, but he couldn’t). “But not now.” He squeezed Fíli’s other hand in his, thumb across the pulse point. “Listen.”

Fíli breathed, forced himself to hear beyond the pounding of his heart and the roaring in his head that remained when the thoughts were silenced.

Beyond the railing that served as a barricade between them and the great hall rose the cries of the children of Lake-town, and he accepted that whatever Kíli thought he knew had to wait.

Fíli stood and reached out, pulling Kíli to his feet. “I’m-” What? Sorry? As if the word had any meaning between them, after this? After Fíli had failed so utterly that he came back to himself with Kíli’s blood on his knuckles? 

Kíli kissed him, sudden and harsh against his split lip, the copper taste of blood on Fíli’s tongue. “It wasn’t you,” he hissed fiercely against Fíli’s mouth. “It wasn’t you. You can set this right.”

Fíli cupped Kíli’s neck, rested their foreheads together for an instant. He was tired, and he hurt, and his mind felt splintered and broken.

He was terrified.

But he breathed, as Thorin had taught him, and tucked away his fear and his guilt to be dealt with later or ignored entirely, as time allowed. 

He crossed to the railing and looked down at the sea of gold, the big folk scurrying over it in fear now, at the children crying.

_They should not have dishonored this hall and our hospitality._

“They’re scared,” Fíli whispered, the fractured memory of Kili’s jaw under his fist giving him a surge of strength to shove the thought down and burn it away. “Scared and lonely and frightened. But why would they take our gold, after all this?”

Kíli stood behind him, a warm, breathing presence. “Maybe they thought they should get a share?”

Fíli shook his head. “We’ve offered them shelter and they’re stealing from us.”

“It wasn’t all of them, was it?” 

Fíli bit his lip, shook his head. “I can’t remember. There were several…but no, not all. I think some were gathered at the base, telling them to stop,” he said slowly, casting back, trying to remember past that moment when he truly saw what they were doing. “But then I saw it was the statue, and I was so…angry.”

What a faint shade of a word to describe what he’d felt in that moment.

He took a careful breath. “We can’t let them stay in here.”

A pause before Kíli asked, “But do you want to send them out into the snow?” He sounded like he wasn’t sure of the answer.

Some part of Fíli did. Not just the thing inside him, but his own training, Thorin’s insistence that dwarves trusted only other dwarves, and even then with caution; his own eyes, when Bard appeared with an army of elves and a scattering of men behind his back, and demanded gold in return for the Arkenstone. His own sense of right and justice, that they should repay his people’s kindness with open disrespect. 

But putting out the women and children of Lake-town would do nothing but invite another confrontation. And they shouldn’t all suffer for the unfathomable behavior of a few.

He stepped forward, curling his hands over the bannister.

“Put them in the waiting chambers,” Fíli said, raising his voice to be heard. Dain’s soldiers stopped and looked up, and there was Dwalin among them, standing and staring up at his king, and Balin at his side, looking pained and sad. “Keep the families together, but split them among the three rooms. We’ve cleared the bodies and they can be cleaned.” His eyes swept over the women, dirty and tired and, yes, ashamed or defiant by turn. “You can help with that,” he told them, “as repayment for the damage you’ve done.” His eyes flickered to the golden statue of Durin, now scraped and chipped, then away.

The fury choked him when he looked at it, but he wouldn’t let him take over his mind again.

Kíli’s voice came from behind him, “Assure them they can stay?” It sounded like a question and not an order.

Fíli nodded, called out again, “No one will be driven from the mountain. But do not attempt to steal from my people again. It is my duty to preserve what they’ve fought for.”

One woman, her voice rough and thick with tears or illness or injury, Fíli didn’t know which, called out, “What Bard fought for you mean! After you unleashed that dragon on our people! And for what?!”

Fíli didn’t let himself think, only spoke on instinct, because if he hesitated even a moment-

“You can stay here.” His voice was mild, his own voice, kind but firm, “but you will not disrespect me or my people, nor will you steal from us. Am I clear?”

The woman glared up mutinously. “We are owed _something_ for your treachery! Your little king promised us riches! Enough to rebuild Esgaroth twice over! And all we got was death!” Gold flashed between her fingers, clutched tightly in her right hand.

A few of the older children called agreement, but Bard’s daughter – the younger one, with her sister trying to hold her back – said, “They’ve lost people too! Their king was their uncle and he died! And stealing is _always_ wrong!”

Fíli smiled.

It was the shadow of a smile, the sight of Sigrid pulling the girl back, of Tilda’s righteous indignation, loosened the tightness in his chest; it felt familiar, memories from his childhood, of holding Kíli back when he wanted to shout or climb or try out his latest wild idea. 

All reversed now, or so he thought as he felt Kíli’s hand at his back. 

“Remove her,” Fíli said, motioning to the woman who argued with him. “And any others who don’t immediately return our gold. Take them to the holding cells. Remove the rest of them from the Great Hall to the old waiting rooms within the hour.” He leaned forward a little. “Balin and Dwalin, you will remain and oversee the relocation. See that no one is hurt, but the hall is cleared.”

Dwalin’s eyes skittered over him, worried and guilty.

“Fíli,” he began, but so quietly Fíli couldn’t hear it, could only see it on his lips.

Fíli wanted to reassure him, wanted to say _Kíli will be with me_ and _I know I’m losing but I’m fighting_ or _I need you to take care of it because I have to get out of here_ or _Please, please, I need you to trust me and stand beside me._ But he couldn’t, not shouted from a balcony with Dwalin among Men and Dain’s soldiers. All he could say was, “I know the two of you will manage it well,” and hope Dwalin’s loyalty was unwavering enough to let him explain and reassure him later.

He stepped back, turned and guiltily met his brother’s eyes. Kíli’s expression was worried, but not afraid.

Why wasn’t he _afraid_?

“I need to get out of here,” Fíli said quietly. 

“I’m coming with you.”

“Kíli, it’s not sa-”

Kíli crossed his arms and glared down at him. “I’m not asking you, Fíli. I’m telling you.” The glare wavered, his fierce brows rising with guilt. “I made a promise I wouldn’t leave you alone, and I broke it.” His arms tightened and he almost looked away. “I’m not going to leave you again.”

Fíli sighed, but some of the fear dissipated, replaced by a deep fondness he felt in his heart and in his bones and everywhere this thing in his mind could never go, as long as he kept Kíli there. 

He held out a hand.

Kíli took it.

Without hesitation, without twitching away, utterly confident that he was safe.

“It wasn’t you,” Kíli said again, and Fíli’s fingers tightened in surprise. “He didn’t fight right. You were fighting like-” his voice caught and he bit his lip. “It wasn’t you.” He stepped forward, tugging. “Let’s go to our rooms. We need to talk.”

They needed a great deal more than that – time alone, plenty of food, and blessed silence in Fíli’s mind, but for now, they would take what they could have.

\----

“It’s Thorin!” Kíli burst out as Fíli closed the door behind them and resolutely set the lock.

“Thorin?”

Kíli dropped Fíli’s hand and started pacing, his long legs making short work of the length of the room. “Remember what Balin said? About Durin?”

Fíli frowned. “That he was thought lost in battle once, but he wasn’t? What does that have to do with Thorin? He’s _dead_ , Kíli, we’re the ones left here.”

“But what if he isn’t?” Kíli stopped for a moment, fierce and dark. “What if he refused to die? Like…like Durin? Durin kept coming back, being reborn back in Khazad-dûm, before it was lost. What if Thorin-”

Fíli felt his jaw drop, and he would have laughed if there hadn’t been blood on Kíli’s chin, well-hidden in the dark hair there. “You think I’m _possessed_ by _Thorin_?!”

“Why not? You were fighting like him!” Kíli shifted his stance, trying to demonstrate. “You circled like he did, and you didn’t get out of the way after you struck. That’s how I knew it wasn’t you – you’re fast and loose when you fight, because of your size and your weapons. But up there you were heavy and slow, like Thorin.”

Fíli shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense, Kíli.”

“It does! Thorin would never let the people of Lake-town inside the mountain. And the _gold._ You saw how he was with the gold.” Kíli started pacing again, agitated, his words choppy. “Maybe it’s part of the goldsickness or just – just _Thorin_ – or it’s a miracle, like Dwalin thinks but – but when you don’t act like you,” he stopped, turned, ran his eyes over Fíli as his voice rose, sharp and desperate, “when I saw you standing on the bannister, yelling down at the Men, I just-you looked-” a wild little gasp for air as he grabbed Fíli’s shoulders. “You looked just like Thorin. You fought like him, you sounded like him, what you said to Gandalf? The way you talked to Dain? It’s Thorin, Fíli.”

“No,” Fíli shook his head, even as the something in his head snarled and prowled. “No, it doesn’t make sense. He couldn’t do it. And he wouldn’t, even if he could.”

“Why not?” Kíli demanded. “If it meant holding on to the mountain?”

Fíli stared at him. “Because he loved us,” he said. “He wouldn’t-Uncle Thorin wouldn’t do this to us, even if there was a way. Which there’s not.”

Pity.

Kíli’s expression shifted to one of such pity that it made Fíli want to pull away and strike out and leave the room all at once.

“He would, Fíli,” Kíli said, and his voice was just as gentle and it turned Fíli’s stomach. “He would because . . . Thorin didn’t love you.”

Fíli jerked. 

He jerked away from those hands and that voice, because you didn’t say it out loud. You _knew_ it, everyone _knew_ it, had known it for a decade or more, but you didn’t say it, you didn’t- “Kíli!”

“No, I don’t-” Kíli’s eyes widened and he tightened his hands, and Fíli wanted to push him away but he couldn’t bring himself to lay his hands on his brother again after what he nearly-remembered from the walkway. “I don’t mean that he hated you, Fíli. Or that he – that he meant to but – but you know it’s true. You know it. You became his heir and not his nephew, and he forgot how to love you. It was wrong, it was wrong, because you’re wonderful, you’re better than him, infinitely better,” his voice was sincere, and Fíli could tell Kíli knew this hurt but he pressed on, “but if he had a chance to be king? Even if it hurt you?”

“Let me go,” Fíli said, and he felt like a child, like a young dwarf of thirty who couldn’t understand why his uncle didn’t laugh or play with him anymore, but only corrected and pushed and watched. 

But Kíli pressed forward, always pushing, “If he could do it, he would.”

Fíli lifted his hands, rested them on Kíli’s chest. “Let go,” he said again, firmly this time, and Kíli did. 

He took a slow breath, remembered Thorin on the battlement, pulling Kíli close, Thorin in Lake-town, his hand on Kíli’s neck, Thorin at Bag End, a warm smile at the sight of Kíli’s grin. 

Fíli standing to the side and nothing, nothing.

Thorin abandoned Fíli in Lake-town without a single gentle touch.

“I’m sorry,” Kíli whispered, and that was familiar too – speak first and think later, and Fíli loved Kíli but it didn’t make his brother perfect. “I’m not trying to hurt you. But you have to - I’ve never understood why you didn’t hate him. I don’t understand why you want to defend him now. But it’s true, Fíli. You sound and you fight like Thorin. And I think, if he could, even if it hurt you, he would take any chance to be king.”

 

_He tells you this after you offer him the crown._

 

Fíli knew pain. He knew what it was like to have someone you loved and admired find something wrong always, always. He knew how to set pain aside and make himself look at the possibility logically.

Would Thorin possess him if he could?

Fíli didn’t think so. Not really. Thorin never hated Fíli, he just… had trouble seeing Fíli as he was, and not as a copy of himself. 

“Thorin was hard on me because he was hard on himself,” Fíli said softly, and when Kíli would have spoken he held a hand up for silence. “He thought it was the best way to make me strong enough to lead. But he doubted himself in the end. He did. I don’t think . . . whatever this is. It never doubts itself.” 

_I am stronger than a stone or a hoard or the miasma left by a dragon._

Kíli snorted softly. “Thorin didn’t. Not often.”

“Oh, Kíli.” Fíli looked at him, really looked at him, at the circles under his eyes. He was so tired, and so desperate to help any way he could. “He doubted himself every day. You wanted to know why I never . . .” he shrugged. “Because he did. Every day.”

Kíli blinked at him. “Are we talking about the same uncle?”

Fíli smiled, almost laughed, reached out and took Kíli’s hands, pulling him to sit on the edge of their bed. “Yes. And I understand what you’re saying. Maybe there’s something to it. Maybe it is . . . someone else in my head? Dwalin thinks this is a miracle from Mahal, Balin thinks we’re alive because of botched elven magic. But I don’t believe it’s Thorin. Not because he wouldn’t do it – though I don’t think he would – but because it doesn’t feel like him. This voice…”

_The wonder due the greatest of Dwarven kings._

“And the dreams. Gandalf mentioned them, so they must be important.” Fíli usually tried not to think of the dreams but he did now, with his brother silent and watchful beside him. He closed his eyes and remembered. “In my dreams, there are crowns and a female? And mithril. And something moving in the deep. Thorin wouldn’t know about those things.”

Kíli made a frustrated sound. “Mithril was mined in Khazad-dûm, and no one’s been inside in generations! Not since Thráin I abandoned it after the deaths of Durin VI and Náin I. Not even Thorin entered, in the battle there.”

_Flames in the deep-_

_-too deep, too deep, digging into the dark-_

_-the stone shifting under their boots-_

Kíli disappeared, his beloved face replaced by fire and death and fear, and Fíli’s heart pounded in his ears as he tried to fight it, tried to bring Kíli back.

_The sounds of screams, the low rumbles in the depths-_

_-A voice, his voice, deep and resounding-_

_-Run, Senna, take Náin and go –_

“Fíli! Fíli!”

_-the heavy weight of a war hammer light in his hands, the creak of armor-_

_-Balrog!-_

“Stop, stop, Fíli, come back!”

Hands on his shoulders, shaking him.

_-Rising from the dead, blood drying on new skin-_

_-The greatest of all dwarf kings-_

“Fíli!”

**XIV**

Fíli dreamed of the Balrog.

Rising from the darkness, out of the mines.

He dreamed of the stone, cracking and breaking.

Of dwarves falling as the stone stopped calling to them.

Cries for help, cries of pain.

Cries for deliverance. 

Tumbling into the dark.

He dreamed of waking in a field of bodies.

Of rising among the dead.

Pain down his side and covered in blood, but rising.

Of his voice, not his voice, deep and echoing.

“Balrog!”

The great roar and a mocking laugh, not his, never his, loud and wild-

“Face _me_ , abomination!”

\----

**A sound.**

**Creak of leather.**

**Crack of metal.**

**The echo of a voice.**

**Shift.**

\----


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

Kíli pulled Fíli onto the bed, wrapped his arms around him and held him close.

He didn’t know what else to do.

Kíli’s strong, protective brother felt cold, shivering in his arms, and Kíli pulled up the blanket and wrapped them both in it, like Fíli did when they were children, neatly tucking in the edges.

“I’m here,” he told Fíli. “I’ll be here when this is over. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Fíli muttered under his breath, words that weren’t-quite-familiar: _monster_ and _Celebrimbor_ and _rings_ and _deep_ and _Sauron_ and _Isildur_.

Kíli’s instinct was to flee. 

He’d always been the youngest, always been the spare, always been a bit coddled: by their parents, by Thorin, by Balin, by Fíli (perhaps worst of all by Fíli). But he couldn’t. Not this time.

“I’ll stay,” he said again. “I’m with you.”

He stayed.

He stayed when Fíli’s murmured words changed, changed into a strange, growled Khuzdul that sounded strangely familiar.

_Bifur_ Kíli thought. “You sound like Bifur,” he said aloud, because he wanted Fíli to hear his voice and hoped it would help him. He pressed a kiss to Fíli’s forehead. “Keep fighting, Fíli. Please. Whatever it is. Come back to me.”

_I’m waiting for you._

“We’ll talk about this when you wake up,” Kíli said, “everything you’re looking at right now. Everything you’re dreaming of. Just as soon as you wake up, so you’ll remember as much as you can.”

Time passed, Kíli didn’t know how much. It felt like hours, helpless and useless, but it could have been minutes before there was a knock on the door – perfunctory only, because the dwarf on the other side didn’t wait for permission before he entered the room.

“Dwalin,” Kíli said, and he knew he should have rushed to move, to tuck Fíli in and make it look like he was just sleeping and not lost in memories or nightmares or dreams or whatever it was that lurked in the back of his brother’s mind and brought them to blows. But he couldn’t. 

He was so tired.

Dwalin stepped forward, his steps heavy. His pale eyes flickered over the two of them, so obviously wrapped up together, Kíli against the headboard with the king of Erebor curled in his lap, his chin on the golden tangle of hair. 

“We’ve separated the Lake-town refugees,” he said. “Balin and Ori are down there, setting up records.”

Kíli breathed carefully. “Thank you.”

“The ones who were causin’ trouble we’ve put in the north rooms,” Dwalin continued. “We didn’t have any cells properly set up, but Dori and Gloin are watching them, along with some of Dain’s soldiers.”

“Make sure they don’t get out. Fíli’s going to have to deal with him. He won’t,” Kíli’s breath caught a moment, “we won’t kill them, but they can’t be allowed to steal from us with no consequence.” A beat. “How many were there?”

“Only five with anything on them,” Dwalin said. “Most were telling them to stop, from what Dain’s people told me.”

“Not so many then,” Kíli murmured. “It was hard to tell at the time.” 

For a long moment Dwalin simply looked at him, one big hand twitching at his side as if he wanted to reach out, as he would have when they were children.

And then he did. 

He raised that hand and rested it on the fur lining Fíli’s boot. He gave it a little squeeze before he lifted his gaze and met Kíli’s straight on.

“You did well today,” he said, his voice rough.

Kíli’s eyes filled with tears, reducing his uncle’s dearest friend to splashes of color, but they didn’t fall. “I didn’t,” he said. “I said I wouldn’t leave him alone, and I did.”

Dwalin nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed in thought. Dwalin was quiet, suspicious, and blunt to a fault, but he was also the most loyal person Kíli had ever known. “You two’ve been carrying a heavy burden, lad,” he said, and his voice wasn’t gentle because it never was, but the growl in it was soft and his eyes were kind. “I’d have you know you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Kíli closed his eyes, trying to hold the tears back, trying to think. He was always a dwarf of action, always rushing or following and saving regrets for later. But this-

_Don’t tell anyone._

Fíli wanted to keep it between them, said that their people wouldn’t accept him if he was unstable. That they’d had enough of mad kings.

Part of Kíli wanted to obey Fíli. The little brother in him, the boy raised to be Fíli’s heir, told him to acquiesce to his wishes. But there was something else, too, something in his mind and in his heart that urged him to obedience in all things. 

_Obey._

He pressed his lips to his brother’s hair.

“Maybe I haven’t been honest with you,” he whispered, for Fíli’s ears alone. “Maybe there’s something in me, too.”

He lifted his head. Kíli was not just a brother, or an heir. He was a warrior, a prince, and, more than anything else, he was Fíli’s lover. He could be none of those things if he always bent to Fíli’s will.

“I don’t understand all of it,” he said, breaking free, making a decision, going against Fíli’s wishes, against the thing in his mind, but doing what had to be done. They couldn’t leave the Company in the dark. They needed allies, and Kíli knew they’d had them all along. “But there’s something wrong. Something in Fíli’s mind, that fights him. Not the Arkenstone, we sent that with Bilbo. I don’t think it’s goldsickness, either, because he would fight it, if it was.” Kíli thought back to that first day, seeing Thorin in the gold, Fíli’s disgust. “I don’t think he felt it, like Thorin did.”

“No,” Dwalin agreed. “Not Fíli. Your brother is quiet, but he’s smart. Thorin fell so quickly.” His eyes were distant a moment, his voice sad, but then a small smile touched his mouth. “But not Fíli. Thorin was proud of him for that.”

“And Gandalf . . .” Kíli shook his head and sighed. “He knows something, but he only gave Fíli hints and ran off, like he always does.” He looked up. “Fíli’s fighting, Dwalin. Every second. And he was winning, until today.”

“He won today.”

Kíli stared at him.

“Whatever this is wanted to kill those people. Fíli stopped it. With your help. He won today.”

Kíli tightened his arms, hoping Fíli heard, hoping Fíli knew. “Thank you.”

Dwalin didn’t waver. He stood still as the stone around them and as immovable. “Tell me what you do know,” he said, “and I will do all in my power to help you.” 

Kíli told him. Everything. Of Fíli, and the voice, of Gandalf, of Thranduil, of the fight on the walkway and how it ended.

Dwalin listened, small grunts giving away to occasional questions until he finally sat on the edge of the bed. His hand never left Fíli’s boot, nor did Fíli ever seem to properly sleep, but the sound of their voices did soothe him, a heavy weight against Kíli’s chest.

“. . . And I have one too,” Kíli finally said, finally, before he’d told Fíli, before he’s truly accepted it. “I think . . . a female. Maybe. She tells me to obey him. I thought it was just _me_ , wanting to do what Fíli said, to help him, but it’s not. It’s someone else, telling me to obey without thinking.” He scrambled for words, because that wasn’t right either. “I mean, what the person in Fíli says, too. Both of them. Just. To obey the king.”

“Is that Senna, then?” Dwalin asked. “Is that why Fíli,” a pause at Kíli’s grunt of disapproval, “why the person in Fíli called you that, on the walkway?”

Kíli shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. It could be. It could be a name, couldn’t it?” He lifted his head, looking up at the weakening sunlight that filtered into their room to allow passage of the ravens. “She could . . . have something to do with ravens,” he murmured. “Maybe that’s why they like me.”

Dwalin watched him steadily. “What would you have me do?” he asked, because they both knew Kíli wouldn’t leave the room with Fíli there. And yet . . . 

Kíli had not expected him to ask.

He’d expected Dwalin to make suggestions, to act, to push and prod, not to _ask._

But he answered, because he understood why. Because Dwalin knew that the crown lay in Kíli’s arms and that, if they couldn’t save Fíli, it could rest directly on his brow. 

He couldn’t be emotional now. He had to stop, and breathe, and think like Fíli, like Thorin. He had to set aside his beating heart and Fíli’s muttered breaths and the thing in his head, thrashing against the thought of taking the crown from Fíli, and be logical.

_Think like Fíli,_ he thought.

“Find Ori and Balin. Tell them to look in the records for any mention of someone named Senna. Consider . . . noblewomen, women who worked with the ravens . . . soldiers or . . .” _consort_ , he thought, in Minn’s cackling voice, “consorts.”

Dwalin frowned. “There’s been no consort by that name in Erebor,” he said, because of course he’d memorized the family tree as a boy, just as Kíli did.

“Then they’ll have to go further back,” he said. “And have . . . have someone from the Company bring up some good. Soup. And tea with honey, if we can get some.”

Dwalin nodded and stood. When he bowed, it was not the little tilt of the head he had given Kíli when he came to his majority, all underlain with the smirk of a dwarf who changed his diapers. It was the formal half-bow of a warrior to his king. “I’ll see it’s done,” he said. 

With Kíli’s promise that Dwalin would be called when Fíli woke, Dwalin left them alone.

Kíli sighed and moved, curling up beside his brother now, side by side on the pillow.

“I’m here,” he whispered, watching as Fíli’s eyelids flickered through his dreams.

_I’m here_ , whispered the voice in his mind, warm and loving and afraid. _You are not alone._

\----

Fíli woke suddenly.

His body went rigid for a moment in Kíli’s arms, his eyes flew open, and then, “Kíli.”

Kíli’s gaze snapped down, and there was Fíli, oh, Fíli awake and looking at him, but so dazed and so tired. “Fíli!”

Fíli winced. “Senna?”

_Yes, my king,_

The name and the voice set Kíli’s heart racing and he shook his head, feeling tears in his eyes and a pounding in his temples. “No! No, no Fíli, please, please, it’s me, it’s-”

“Kíli.” Fíli reached out, tangled his hand in Kíli’s hair, fingers cool against Kíli’s ear. His voice was soft and rough, as if he’d screamed for hours. “I’m sorry. You’re upset.”

Kíli laughed. He laughed and denied the love of that voice in his head, replaced it with his own. He cupped Fíli’s face in his hands and kissed him, lingering. “Please stop taking care of me,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

“Help me?” Fíli stared at him, and there was fear in his eyes. 

“Yes,” Kíli whispered, even though he didn’t know how, didn’t have a clue.

“I died,” he said, his voice strange and distant.

“You didn’t-!”

“I died…over and over. I died and I rose from the ashes, and I lived.”

Kíli bit his lip hard enough to send a slice of pain through his jaw. “Stay with me, Fíli, stay with me,” he begged, because it was all he could do. 

“I died of old age, with my children around me, fathered with near-strangers to create a line of kings.” 

A wave of warmth, a voice: _My king, my beloved, I am your helpmeet and your heir. You are not alone._

“I walked beside the water, and wore a crown of stars,” Fíli stared at him, watched him, and held on, fingers in Kíli’s hair like he was all that held him to the mountain. “I woke in a field of bodies, and fought at the side of Elves and Men against a madman with a ring.”

“Fíli, _please._ ”

“I woke under a pile of bodies and fought the monster of the deep. He killed me, and I woke again.” 

_He’s gone mad_ , Kíli thought, and he shuddered, and cried, tears spilling from his lashes and splashing between them. Because no one did those things, no one except-

But Fíli softened his hold, slid his hands to Kíli’s cheeks, tugged him close and kissed them away. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s me. The memories aren’t me, but I am.”

And it was, Kíli heard it in his voice and felt it in the brush of lips across his cheeks, because the something inside him – _I haven’t been honest with you, I didn’t tell you_ – dreamed of full black beards and deep, harsh voices.

He breathed his brother’s name and kissed him, murmured against his lips, “I knew you’d win, I’d knew you’d win, thank you,” and Fíli held on for long moments and kissed him back, slow and thorough until it melted into nothing and they only pressed together, foreheads touching and Fíli’s hand protectively curled around the pulse at Kíli’s neck.

They breathed. 

“Fíli,” Kíli whispered, because he had to think logically, and that meant getting all the information from Fíli he could, as soon as possible. “I need you to talk to me. I need you to explain what you saw, and maybe we can figure this out together.”

Fíli blinked at him, smiled, but then he said, “Later.”

“Later?” Fíli pulled away, and the movement was so unexpected that Kíli let go, let him slip through his fingers. “You’ve just woken up!” Kíli told him, reaching out. “I need to tell you-”

“I have to go, Kíli. Later.”

“There’s dinner coming, I ordered it,” Kíli argued, scrambled to the edge of the bed. “And I want to talk to you about this – I wasn’t entirely – I need to tell you,” he stumbled over the words, because something was-

Fíli shifted, his shoulders straight, and he barely looked like himself, dark circles under his eyes and his hair disheveled. “Later, I said,” and ice ran down Kíli’s spine because it had only been moments, moments, and where was his brother now, “after I deal with that woman from Lake-town.”

The way he said it-

_Deal with_

-made Kíli’s skin crawl, made him furious, made him sick. Because his Fíli would never talk like that and he was _tired_ – tired of whatever wore his brother down and chipped away at him and how _dare_ it come now, when they were tangled up together and desperately clinging to a moment of peace.

He darted forward, grabbed Fíli’s wrist. “No!” he snapped, “no, you’re not! You’re going to stay here, _Fíli’s_ going to stay here!”

_Do not fight him!_

_Obey!_

_Obey!_

_My love, I am here, I hear you-_

Fíli threw him back. A twist of his wrist and a shove at his chest that made Kíli stagger away. 

When he spoke, his voice echoed and rolled in the air. 

And the words-

“ _I am Durin the Deathless_ ,” he growled, and Kíli couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, “the Father of our people. And I will not be hindered by idiotic children playing at being king!”

**XV**

“And now, Kíli, Fíli,” Mr. Balin said, his eyes crinkling at the edges as they did when he was pleased with them, “recite for me the lives of Durin, father of the Longbeards.”

“ _Durin I,_ ” Kíli recited obediently, because some history lessons were boring, but this one was full of adventure, every simple recitation backed by hours of wonderful stories. 

And his brother finished for him, in his new, serious, grown-up voice: _“who woke in the mountain at the beginning of the people, and walked upon the earth until he made a home in the Misty Mountains: Khazad-dûm, the greatest of all dwarf kingdoms.”_

_“Durin II-”_

_“-who made peace with the Men of the Anduin.”_

_“Durin III-”_

_“-who received one of the Seven Rings, our people’s greatest secret, from the hand of Celebrimbor.”_

_“Durin IV-”_

Now Fíli’s voice was a little louder, because this was his favorite, _“-who fought in the Last Alliance, thought lost at the Siege of Barad-dur only to rise again.”_

_“Durin V-”_

_“-who reigned in peace and prosperity, and sired sons and daughters.”_

_“Durin VI,”_ Kíli said, and now his voice trembled with a thrilling hint of fear.

_“-who woke the Balrog,”_ Fíli recited obediently, but his eyes shone with the thought of the great halls of Khazad-dûm, of the monster in the deep, _“who died fighting him, whose son Nain died, whose grandson Thrain I abandoned the mountain and founded Erebor.”_

Balin’s tone was warm. “Well done, lads.”

And then Kíli’s sweet, piping voice, “He died and came back?”

“Yes, lad, he did. Durin is not only our father, but also our greatest hero. He is born again as one of his own descendants, when his people need him.”

Kíli glanced at his brother, Fíli’s returning glance quizzical and a little impatient. He thought of his mother, and of his father, and of his uncle and of Mr. Balin and Mr. Dwalin, and all their family. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around his brother (always a touchy prospect these days) and he said:

“How sad. He has to leave behind everyone he loves, over and over again.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Sixteen**

Fíli heard Kíli’s voice.

When he drowned in memories that were not his own, he heard Kíli’s voice.

“I don’t – I don’t care who you are!” Kíli shouted, shouted at a dwarf who was one step away from the Valar. “You’ve no right to my brother!”

Fíli almost laughed, would have laughed, if he could. 

If he wasn’t half-blind and lost in memories and couldn’t move his own body. 

“You’re a boy,” his mouth spat, and Fíli thought he could see through his eyes but he couldn’t, because he didn’t see Kíli, instead he saw

_Gentle eyes, warm and brown, a tired smile, “A boy, my love, your son.”_

_He’d been a father before, a dozen times over, but never like this, with the person he loved, and it was different, his beautiful, golden-haired consort, their son and heir in her arms. He reached out a great hand and touched the small head, stroked a finger over it, murmured, “My prince,” and the baby squirmed and hiccupped at his voice as Senna’s gentle laugh purred around them._

Senna.

Durin was a creature of confusion and rage, but the mere thought of that name soothed him, calmed him, brought images of a solid blonde beauty, of a slender, dark-haired consort, of an old female bent and crying and laying her children to rest. 

Kíli, Fíli thought, and he curled around the name and the memory even as Durin snarled against him-

“You’re a boy! You have no right to even _speak_ to me!”

And it was Durin. Durin, the father of his people, tangled in his mind.

Kíli’s voice, trembling only a little: “I am the prince of Erebor. I fought for this mountain. I nearly died for it. And for Fíli. I won’t let you have him. Not now. I don’t care who you are.”

 _Run,_ Fíli thought, but he couldn’t say it, shoved as he was in a corner of his own mind, lost as he was in

_The first time was the worst._

_To live so long, alone, centuries watching those around you grow old and waste, and finally die. To think that your reward is coming, that you will rise in the hall of your Maker, only to jerk back to consciousness in a broken body surrounded by corpses. The sounds of war filled the air – screams, the clash of metal, the chattering sound of the language of Men, the cries of horses. He blinked, and blood dripped into his eyes._

_“I died,” he whispered, and coughed up more blood, but there was war around him and he knew war._

_He rose from the dead, felt his chest knit as he raised his axe, torn fingers wrapping around the handle. His body felt different, too-heavy, the reach of his arm was off, but this was war. This was war._

_He knew war._

_He was a king._

\---

Fíli loved Kíli’s voice.

He had, since it had changed and dipped low. Since he’d realized Kíli was an adult who would stand by his side forever. 

Now he clung to it.

“Why are you _here_?” Kíli demanded, and Fíli saw him – flushed and angry and afraid. “Fíli – Fíli can be king on his own. He doesn’t need you. He’s – he’s always been stronger than he thinks, and kind and just – he has _me_ -”

“He’s not meant to have you!” a roar, and it made his throat hurt, because Fíli’s voice wasn’t deep like that, didn’t resonate like that, and he’d never felt at odds in his own body before. “He’s not meant to be here at all!”

Fíli’s heart pounded – his heart? Durin’s? the one in his chest, the one his mother once pressed kisses to – because those words were

_Different faces._

 _Similar. There were features that passed down. He saw them in his children (every time, had to father sons on females of high birth, had to carry on the line): the long nose, the dark hair, the blue eyes. But there were changes as well, every time, when he woke in an empty body and made it his own._

_The third one’s mother wept when she realized the truth, fell at his feet and begged:_

_“Bring my baby back to me!”_

_But there was nothing to be done for it, and he only stared down at her and ordered her to her feet._

_What good were a mother’s tears for a dead dwarf? He’d looked at the body and had seen it, the new skin all along his stomach. Her son was nearly sliced in half, by the look of it._

_He’d felt the soul shatter. Felt it break apart as he woke._

_It wasn’t like dying._

_It was something else._

_Something worse._

\---

Fíli needed Kíli’s voice.

He reached for it, as he realized the truth.

_I died._

_I died._

_I died on the battlefield, I’m not meant to be here._

“He’s meant to be dead,” came that voice from his throat, and Fíli pushed, shoved, saw through his eyes as Kíli stumbled one step back. “This is my body, now. I will not fight him for it any longer. I will take it. And I will find my consort, and I will protect my children as I always have.”

But the voice was shaking.

It was shaking.

Durin wasn’t sure.

_Kíli, keep talking, keep talking._

Fíli pushed.

“You’re the one who’s dead! And your-your _consort_ as well!” Kíli was furious, enough that he wasn’t frightened anymore, and indignant and radiant and Fíli wanted to touch him, wanted to reach out-

_He died more than once before he found her._

_His true consort._

_His helpmeet._

 _Standing at the great gates of Khazad-dum, her arms spread, a flurry of sleek black wings and loud cries that somehow, miraculously (“not a miracle,” she laughed, “hours and years of hard work and patience”) became words under her tutelage._

_She was no great beauty and no great scholar, but she was kind. And gentle. So gentle._

_The ravens loved her._

_Dying was worse that time, he was used to leaving friends and children behind, but this time it came with the fear of the next life without her._

_But he woke (for once not surrounded by death, only young, very young to die, his head pounding and lying in a puddle of blood)._

_And she was there._

_Dark hair, taller, but the ravens knew her, surrounded her, loved her, called out to her._

_And so did he._

\----

Fíli reached for Kíli’s voice. 

He was meant to be dead.

His body was not his own.

He waged war with an ancient king.

Kíli’s voice, growling, “Leave him be. Leave my brother be. I’ll fight you.”

“You can try.”

_Yes! Yes, try!_

Fíli fought.

He didn’t know how, when he was trapped in his body, but he pushed, pushed against this ancient soul crowded in beside his own and he held on to his brother’s voice.

“You have no right to take Fíli away,” Kíli snarled, and Fíli whispered down deep in his heart that Kíli somehow heard him and kept talking to distract Durin so Fíli could navigate his own soul into his own body. “He’s not dead, he’s not dead, he’s _here_ -”

_It would be easier to die._

_It would be easier, if I was like the others. If I was dead and the body was his and I could go on to the Halls where I belong._

_I accepted death, on the field at Kíli’s feet._

Fíli curled in on himself.

_There would be less pain there._

_I wouldn’t have to fight there._

“He’s here and I’m keeping him with me!”

“You’re children. You can’t fight me. If you could handle yourselves, your brother,” the word sneered on Fíli’s tongue, like something disgusting, “wouldn’t have died on the battlefield.”

“But he didn’t! He didn’t! He’s here! I can tell when it’s him and not you-”

“I will remedy that. I won’t fight children for this body. I won’t let children leave my people homeless in the wilderness.”

“I’m not a child!”

“You could be 300 and you’d be a child to me.”

_If I’d died-_

_If I’d died that day, like the others, I wouldn’t know what it’s like to love Kíli._

He rose, he rose and thrashed, and Durin knew he was there now, Durin turned on him-

“Die! Die like you were meant to!”

“Fíli!” Hands, hands grabbing his arms and holding on. “Fíli, you’re _mine_. You’re mine and you’ll come back to me where you belong!”

“I’ll tear you to shreds like the others!”

_Tear you to shreds._

_Like the others._

Fíli suddenly knew fear.

Truly knew it.

He searched through the memories-

_Dying was peaceful, a gentle wave of ending, hope for new beginnings._

_Waking was pain. Broken ribs and shattered bones, still hearts and pools of blood. And that horrible, shattering light-a soul fracturing, broken._

_Die._

This would be more than death. This would be an end to everything. He wouldn’t even have a place in the Halls.

_The souls were destroyed before. He’s never had to fight like this._

He forced the words out, felt the vibration in his throat, “The others died,” he whispered. “The others died, and that’s when he came.”

“You didn’t.” Kíli’s voice, firm, a little wild, “you didn’t. You’re here. Don’t die now. Don’t do it. Don’t, Fíli.”

_I won’t die._

_I was willing to die for Thorin._

Fíli almost saw him then, Durin, as he’d seen himself in the lake, wearing a crown of stars. One of the Maker’s perfect creations, wild dark hair and blue eyes filled with wonder, diminished to a flickering soul fighting over a small, mortal body. 

_I was willing to die for our people._

“Do you think,” the words were inside him and outside him, and Fíli knew Kíli could hear, felt Kíli’s hands tighten, “you can fight me?”

_I’m not willing to die for you._

_I won’t die for you._

“I won’t die for you!”

“Fíli! Fíli! Come on, come on, I’m here, come on-”

“I’m not giving you a choice.” 

_Kíli, Kíli, Kíli, Kíli._

_I love you._

Kíli, flushed and angry and yelling, “Let him go. He’s mine. He’s mine!” screaming in the face of a legend.

_I’ve always loved you._

_If I’d died that day, you’d never have known all the ways I love you._

_I’d never have known how your skin feels, how you sound when you fall apart._

_I’d never have-_

“He doesn’t belong to you! He doesn’t belong to the people! Fíli is mine. I’m his.”

_I won’t let you have this._

_I won’t let you take this._

_This is mine._

“Kíli.”

A mouth on his, hard, the clack of teeth, one kiss, two, a flush of heat and Kíli’s hands tangled in his shirt and Durin roaring in his mind-

_I will not be cowed!_

_I will not be brought down!_

_I will not fail!_

Until it was Fíli.

It was Fíli, and Kíli, and he cupped his brother’s face in his hands and kissed him properly, gentled it, soft noises and tears on both their faces mingling on their lips. 

“It’s you,” Kíli whispered, his voice broken and tired.

“It’s me,” Fíli answered, and his was the same, but proud. So proud. “It’s me.” 

“Just you?”

Fíli shook his head even as he wrapped his arms around Kíli. He was meant to be the strong one, who kept Kíli safe. This reversal- 

_I will win, in the end, boy._

“No. Not just me.” He tightened his arms as Kíli made a soft, pained noise. “He’s here. But I’m stronger. With you.” He kissed the corner of Kíli’s mouth, tasted salt. “I’m stronger with you. You saved me. More than you know.”

Kíli was brave, and rash, and loud at times. But now he was quiet and steady, a heavy certainty in his words as he said, “We’re going to save each other, Fíli.”

**XVI**

“Amad.”

“Yes, my darling?” 

“Uncle Thorin said that the Valar all worked together to make the elves.”

“Yes they did.” Warm arms wrapped around him and held him close. Amad smelled of woodsmoke and mint, and the light powder she used when she changed baby Kíli’s diapers. 

At the thought of Kíli, Fíli had to twist and turn enough to see the bassinette, and make sure his brother was sleeping soundly.

“And to make the Men, too.”

“Yes, that’s why the Men and Elves venerate all the Valar.”

Fíli squirmed a little. “But . . . but only Mahal made us.”

Amad gave him a squeeze. “Yes. Mahal made the seven fathers and the six mothers.”

Fíli bit his bottom lip, trying to find words for the unhappy feeling in his belly. “But why?”

“Why?”

“Why didn’t the others help make us? Didn’t they like us?”

Amad sighed, and pressed kiss to his hair. “That is something it’s very hard to understand until you’re older. But the other races have many parents, and we have only one. But Mahal created us out of love. The love of making something beautiful, something powerful. And we were granted life by Ilúvatar, so we are as great a creation as any.”

“But if he loved us,” Fíli argued, “why did he lift his hammer to destroy the fathers and mothers?”

Amad sucked in a sharp breath. “Did Thorin tell you that part of the story?”

Fíli ducked his head, feeling as if he’d done something wrong. “Yes,” he said, in a little voice.

“You are too young for that part. Much too young.”

“I’m sorry.”

A warm hug and then, “Oh, my darling, it isn’t your fault. Your uncle forgets sometimes that you’re a boy and need time to learn about some things. That is such a terrible, sad part of the story that sometimes I wish it was made up later and not true at all. But sometimes we have to destroy what we create, if it is deemed too dangerous, or not for the greater good. Mahal loved Ilúvatar and the other Valar, and he didn’t want to anger or hurt them, so he was willing to destroy his great creations – which didn’t have life yet.” She petted his hair gently. “Always remember, there was no life yet. Mahal loves all of us, as the children of his greatest creations. We are blessed to have one Valar who loves us above other races.”

“. . . Even if he was willing to break them, if Ilúvatar said so?”

Amad’s voice was sad. “Unfortunately, my love, there are always times when sacrifices must be made.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Seventeen**

Fíli would have gone straight back to work, thanks to years of being taught to put his needs aside for the greater good, but Kíli wouldn’t let him. He made Fíli stay through dinner, made Fíli talk to him – not about Durin, not about plans, but about them: about shared memories and childhood, great hunting expeditions (appropriately exaggerated), and a debate over whether or not have their parents stay in the king’s quarters with them or put them next door. 

Of course, Fíli being Fíli, he then attempted to get back to work as soon as dinner was finished, but Kíli reached out and caught him, hands tight on Fíli’s upper arms for just the moment it took to stop his forward momentum. “You passed out,” Kíli told him, and he thought a million emotions were there in his eyes and in his voice. “You passed out and I couldn’t help you.”

Fíli reached up then, hand curling around Kíli’s neck, thumb along his jaw. “I’m sorry-”

“No! No,” Kíli’s hands gentled in return, slid down and around his brother, keeping him close. “I don’t want apologies. That’s not what I mean. I just need you to,” he took a breath. “I need you to slow down, just for tonight. Just . . .” it was a tiny adjustment to lean forward, press their foreheads together. “Just let me take care of you.”

Fíli’s face was fuzzy so close up, but the blue of his eyes was as clear as ever. “There’s so much to do,” he said gently, “and everyone saw what happened. We have to manage it.”

“Dwalin knows. I told him.” Fíli jerked a bit in Kíli’s hold, but Kíli held on. “We have to tell all of them, Fíli. We have to tell the Company so they can help us, too. But not right now. Not tonight. Dwalin will handle things until the morning. Tonight just…” greatly daring, Kíli lifted his hands, cupped Fíli’s jaw and tilted his chin up so he could kiss him. It was a soft brush of lips, barely more than a breath, more asking permission than properly kissing. “Just stay with me. And let me take care of you. You need me, Fíli.” He hated to say it and he thrilled to say it, but it was true. Fíli needed him. 

Fíli breathed.

He breathed, and his heart beat steady and strong under Kíli’s hands, and he watched Kíli with eyes that were too old and too exhausted, eyes that broke Kíli’s heart.

But then he moved, pushed up on his toes, and kissed Kíli properly; warmth and pressure that slowly deepened into the gentle slide of tongues and shared pants for air. “I love you,” he whispered, and his hand tangled in Kíli’s hair as he pulled him down again, kissed him, reaffirmed his words with every touch. “You’re right. I need you.” Simple phrases that meant the world. “I’ll stay. It can wait.”

They talked.

They talked of the Company as Kíli insisted on a proper bath, gentle hands on each other’s bodies (a million memories from their childhood, being popped in the bath together and instructed to make sure the other washed behind his ears). They spoke of the mountain as Kíli neatly braided Fíli’s hair and Fíli neatly braided his, even though they both knew the wet strands would work free in the night and return to their usual tangled glory. Kíli whispered a confession of the voice in his head as they curled in bed together, bare skin and loving touches until Fíli kissed his fears away and forgave Kíli’s silence with the spread of his thighs and the lift of his hips.

But it was his forgiveness that tore the words from Kíli:

“If Senna is Durin’s consort, is that why you . . .”

And he motioned between them as his heart pounded loud and cacophonous in his ears. Because the thought had twisted through his mind for hours, since he truly accepted what was inside him, that he was fighting as well. 

Since he realized how powerful the thing in his brother was.

Fíli studied him, in that quiet, watchful way that was completely Fíli and no one else, and then he twisted his hips and rolled them over, catching Kíli’s hands and kissing him. “No,” he said firmly, no question in his voice at all. “It’s not because of that.” 

Kíli stared up at him. He’d never had Fíli over him like this, the press of Fíli’s body, the fall of honey colored hair, still damp and curling. Perhaps he should have been afraid – it had been hours (felt like days, felt like eternity) since this body had pinned him down and threatened to hit him, and his body was still delicate and sore from the fight.

But it hadn’t been Fíli.

This was Fíli.

He knew it, could feel it, in the beating of their hearts, in the gentle curve of his brother’s lips. In the way his own body responded, legs parting, hands rising, hips arching. 

“He doesn’t know. He’s angry at me, because he thinks I should be looking for her instead of being here with you.”

Kíli reached up, pushing damp curls behind Fíli’s ear. “He doesn’t?” he whispered, hoping, hoping. “She does. She wants me to obey him.”

“No. He doesn’t know. He probably will in the morning, but so far he’s been fighting how I feel for you. What I feel, Kíli. Not him.

“I love you,” Fíli continued before Kíli could argue or worry, “because you’re kind and brave and foolhardy.” He leaned down and kissed Kíli, a gentle swipe of tongue. “I loved you in Ered Luin, when you refused to stay behind. I loved you on the road to the Shire, when it was just the two of us, and we talked for hours or just rode in silence.” His lips began moving down Kíli’s neck, his shoulder, and every touch was perfect, the murmur of his voice chasing away that dark feeling in Kíli’s chest. “I loved you in Rivendell, laughing in the fountain, and I loved you when I thought I’d die on the giant’s knee.” Kíli made a soft, distressed sound, couldn’t hide it, and Fíli kissed the skin over his heart. “I loved you on the back of an eagle. I loved you in the Mirkwood, in the dungeons, and I burned with jealousy because I couldn’t tell you.”

“Jealousy?” Kíli gasped, because the braids brushed the skin of his stomach, and he couldn’t imagine Fíli being jealous of anything, not when, “But I was already in love with you too.”

Fíli lifted his head and he smiled. He smiled, fit to raise the sun, young and strong and everything he was meant to be, this golden flame of Erebor. “Were you?” he asked.

Kíli felt his cheeks warm but he couldn’t help smiling back, couldn’t stop from tugging Fíli up and whispering, “Yes,” against his mouth, because it was true. His heart had stuttered and pounded at the sight of his brother’s face for months, long before that day on the battlefield. Long before they both… 

He shook the thought away. 

It wasn’t important.

In this moment, for these precious seconds, it wasn’t important.

“Show me,” he said instead, sliding his arms around Fíli’s back and lifting his hips. “Show me.”

It was different, like this, Fíli over him, Fíli’s voice as he murmured against his mouth and his collarbone and his stomach. It was even more different, more new, when Fíli’s fingers slipped inside him, slick and cool with oil, strange and foreign, but there was no flicker of memory from the mind twisted in with his own, and Fíli’s touch was so delicate and so nervous that Kíli knew it was only Fíli as well.

Just them.

Just them.

Just Fíli, so careful, asking permission, constantly checking; just Kíli, the strange burn of it, the stretch, not quite good but not bad at all and then-

Just them, as Fíli moved, and Kíli tightened his legs around his brother’s waist and took him in and they became one person, just Fíli and Kíli and no one else. 

It wasn’t perfect – it was awkward and it burned, and it took time before Fíli found an angle that made Kíli gasp and cry out, and then he struggled to keep it, and Fíli went too fast or too slow and Kíli finally had to wrap his hand around his own erection and stroke but-

-But it’s imperfection was perfection.

Because it was them. 

Fíli came first, burying his face in Kíli’s shoulder, a flood of warmth and lust and love that brought noises to Kíli’s lips he’d never made before. He started to pull away and Kíli grabbed for him, stopped him, muttered, “No, no, not yet,” because he didn’t want to give it up, and he came minutes later on a low moan into Fíli’s mouth, both their hands on his erection, slick and hard and gentle and imperfect but absolutely wonderful. 

“We’ll save each other,” Fíli said as Kíli curled against him, overwhelmed, his hands splayed along the arch of Kíli’s spine.

\----

Kíli’s dreams were filled with memories.

But he couldn’t make sense of them, beyond the impression of raven’s cries, rough hands, a thick black beard, the weight of a babe against his chest.

He woke in Fíli’s arms, with a shadow of that other voice in his mind.

\-----

They met with the entire Company in the morning.

Fíli spoke calmly, though he stood with his hands behind him, fingers clenched together as he told their friends and family the impossible. 

Kíli wasn’t sure they believed him.

Some did. Dwalin, of course, and Oin, definitely, and Kíli . . . Kíli thought Balin, though Balin didn’t speak much, and that was unlike him. But the others. It was hard to tell.

 _Please,_ he thought, _please believe us._

“Durin was reborn in his descendants,” Dori argued, even as Ori shifted closer to Kíli and Fíli in a show of support. Nori watched them, his eyes sharp and thoughtful. “He didn’t replace them as adults.”

“Maybe the original names were just lost,” Oin argued loudly, “once they became Durin.”

“That seems to be the case,” Fíli agreed. He didn’t tell them what he’d told Kíli that morning, his voice shaking: that the souls of those Durin replaced were fractured as they died, that as far as Durin knew, they were destroyed. “They were always someone else first, but when they died, Durin replaced them.”

“But what about Durin V?” Gloin demanded. “There are no records of him going into battle!” 

Fíli’s eyes closed a moment, and Kíli didn’t try to resist the urge to reach out and touch his back. Fíli said Durin was quiet now – that he was always quiet, when they were tangled together in lust and love - but they both feared the memories pulling Fíli back down. “He died in a mining accident, before he was even battle-ready. That was Durin’s longest life, save the first.”

Gloin scowled darkly at him. “You’ve always been a good lad,” he said shortly, “but do you realize what you’re saying? That Durin, the father of our people, forged by Mahal himself, has spent generations stealing the lives of others and driving them mad?”

“No! I’m not saying that at all!” Fíli spread his hands, calling for silence as rumbles grew among the older dwarves. “First, they’re already dead when he comes. Only I . . . only I wasn’t. That’s why we’re struggling now.” He stood so straight and so steady when he said this, and Kíli couldn’t hide the pride in his face. “And he doesn’t . . . I don’t think he controls it. He remembers waking up, and each time it’s a shock.” Fíli shuddered, just once, wavered on his feet, and Kíli remembered his voice in the dark hours of morning, _a creature in the deep_. “I don’t know what controls it. I think Gandalf has some idea, but he’s left us-”

“Of course,” Dwalin muttered darkly, and Kíli snarled quiet agreement. 

“-to look for answers. We have to do what we can here until he returns.”

The Company glanced at each other.

They were all so tired, and diminished – Thorin buried, Bofur and Bifur escorting Bilbo and the Arkenstone back to the Shire – but still they were the bravest, truest souls Kíli knew. 

They needed the Company.

Ori’s voice broke the silence, a little too-loud as he tended to do when he was nervous. “I found Senna in the records,” he announced, and suddenly all eyes were on him. 

“Who is she?” Kíli asked, though he knew, thought he knew.

Ori scowled. “Not that it makes a difference, or at least it _shouldn’t_ ,” he turned his glare on Dori, “in whether or not I believe you. But she is in the records. Not in Erebor, like you said,” he nodded to Dwalin, “but in Moria. Senna was the consort of Durin IV, the first official consort listed for one of the Durins. Before Senna, they were wives, not Consorts, but she’s listed as both.” He rooted in his satchel and pulled out a scroll, handing it over not to Fíli, but to Kíli. 

Kíli couldn’t hide a small smile as he took it. The move had been deliberate – it was to the Consort or Heir documents were handed, to be passed on to the King only if needed. Ori’s little return grin made it clear he knew exactly what he had done. 

He unrolled it as Ori continued, the leather delicate in his hands, the spidery lettering faded. “She appears sometimes not by name but as ‘The Lady of the Ravens.’”

Balin jerked, just a little, and finally spoke. “The Lady,” he murmured, lifting his head, and then Kíli knew-

Balin believed them.

“The Lady of the Ravens taught them to speak,” Balin said slowly. “I wondered, after we spoke of her yesterday, and the records were easy to find. Smaug felt no need to disturb the library. Books held no value to him.”

 _Just yesterday_ , Kíli thought, because it felt impossible. Just yesterday. Time was losing all meaning, in these weeks after the battle for Erebor.

“It was easy enough to find a book with the story in it: the Lady who taught the ravens to speak, and convinced them to carry messages. The statue in the aviary here was carried from Khazad-dûm; even as they fled, Thráin I ordered it transported so that the ravens would follow.”

Something shifted.

Something in Kíli’s chest, something around his heart, and he knew her

_The lady of the ravens._

“She came back with him after that,” he said, his voice distant in his ears. “She came back with him.”

_The mother of kings._

_My babies._

“Yes,” Ori agreed, “Durin V and VI both had consorts, though they weren’t named Senna, they were full consorts. It could very well be her.”

_Holding an infant in her arms, nuzzling to her breast, looking up into blue eyes – a full black beard, dark brown braids, silver-gray chopped short in mourning-_

_Stones on their graves. Long lives, so long, holding a tiny life and knowing she would live to see it ended, wake to begin again._

“Kíli!”

Kíli shook his head, opened his eyes-blue. Blue, short blond beard, the latest vessel.

No.

Not a vessel.

Fíli.

“I’m here,” he said, blinking hard. “I think – I think I saw memories, like you do.”

Fíli brushed a kiss across his forehead, because there would be no secrets here. “I think you did.”

The other’s faces came into view, worried and watchful. 

“How do you fight it?” Ori asked, his soft voice breaking the silence.

Fíli opened his mouth to answer, but it was Dwalin’s growl of a voice that rung out instead, “With help,” he said, glaring down the line of them. “With our help.”

The answering nods were everything Kíli needed – hands reaching out, resting on his, resting on Fíli’s. 

“We are at your service,” Balin said, and the others murmured after him, even Nori, even Gloin, “Fíli, King under the Mountain.”

Fíli straightened his back, lifted his chin. The shadows under his eyes deepened and Kíli’s heart hurt with pride for him. “Even against Durin?” he asked, unwavering.

Balin studied him a moment, his gentle eyes serious. Then he turned to Gloin and said, “Go fetch it.”

Gloin didn’t hesitate. He offered Fíli and Kíli a smile – the one from their childhood, shared over Gimli’s head as their little cousin fussed and bothered about something – and slipped quickly from the room.

“What is this about?” Kíli asked, but Ori grinned and shushed him.

Gloin walked back in with a crown cradled delicately in his hands.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t of complex design. It was simple, a heavy circlet of braided gold – white, yellow, and red - a far cry from the heavy artistry of the raven crown now buried with Thorin. But it was delicately made, smooth, and it suited Fíli.

Perfectly.

Gloin laid the crown in Kíli’s hands. “For your brother,” he said, and bowed.

“You made this?” Kíli asked, running his hands over the smooth braided knots, remembering learning to braid, his father making Fíli sit still and let Kíli practice, Fíli’s huffs of annoyance; just that morning, pressing kisses to the beads as he slid them in place on fresh new plaits. 

_It is not worthy of the king of Erebor._ The voice was clear, unusually sharp, terribly unwelcome after hours of silence. _It should be melted for scrap. Durin would never wear this._

“You’ll have to have a proper one made, when the artisans arrive,” Dori said hurriedly, “but for now, we thought you should have one of your own-”

_Too simple. Unworthy. Don’t dishonor him-_

Fíli smiled, holding up a hand for silence. “It was made by the bravest dwarves it has been my honor to know. The king’s family.” His eyes settled solemnly on Bombur as he said this, on Dori, Nori, and Ori, making it clear that they were considered as much family as those who shared noble blood. “I’m honored.”

He lowered his head.

Kíli stood, with this crown in his hands – a crown unlike any of his memory, of Senna’s memories, beautiful and almost delicate in its simplicity, and even as visions flickered behind his eyes (black hair, a heavy mithril crown) he pushed beyond them and saw only this: Fíli, his brother, his beloved.

The golden king of Erebor.

Fíli’s eyes flicked up. He smiled, and nodded. “It is for you to do,” he said. He left _as consort and heir_ unspoken, but it warmed Kíli’s heart nonetheless. The others would know it. They already knew it.

Kíli placed the crown on his brother’s head, and hoped never to have to remove it.

**XVII**

“What does it mean,” Kíli asked, curling tighter inside his uncle’s coat, against Thorin’s side, “that Fíli will be your heir?”

Thorin’s voice was a rumble against Kíli’s ear, and he smelled of woodsmoke and crisp autumn air. It was just the two of them, a rare occurrence, curled up snug and warm in front of the fire. “It means that one day, when I have gone to the Maker’s Halls, your brother will be king.”

Kíli wrinkled up his nose, nuzzling it into the soft rabbit fur that lined Thorin’s inner coat. He loved cuddling up close to Thorin, even though it always took a few minutes for Thorin to really relax and wrap him up properly. “But what if Fíli grows up and he doesn’t want to be king? Does it mean he’ll have to go away a long, long, long, long time like Grandfather?”

Kíli had never met his grandfather, but he knew his grandfather was king and Thorin was the Crown Prince. 

“It . . . will not be a matter of what he wants. It will be a matter of responsibility. I will-” Uncle Thorin stopped, then said, “you parents and I will do all we can to raise him so that when the time comes, he’ll be ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Your brother is intelligent and caring. He will be a great king one day.”

Kíli considered that. Fíli was definitely smart, and bossy too, which was probably important to being king. “And what about going away?”

“Most kings do not go away. They live in their mountain and take care of their people. Your grandfather was an unusual case.”

“Because of Smaug.”

“Yes,” Thorin’s voice became colder as he said the words, “because of Smaug.”

Kíli wiggled just a little, forcing Thorin to readjust his arm to a move comfortable position across Kíli’s shoulders. “So being your heir means that one day, Fíli will be king of Thorin’s Halls, like you’ll be.”

“No.” Thorin tightened his arm, and his eyes were distant as he stared into the fire. “No. Your brother will never be king of Thorin’s Halls.” His voice rolled in the air, a promise. “Fíli will be king of Erebor.”


	18. Chapter 18

**XVIII**

“Uncle Thorin . . ?”

“Fíli.” A small smile as his uncle shifted over in the seat nearest the fire, inviting his sister-son to join him, if he wanted. 

Fíli didn’t sit. He stood, hands tangling with nerves. He was already so small – he didn’t need to be smaller still, especially in front of Thorin. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Big hands reached out, separated his; a gentle reminder not to fidget, not to give his emotions away so clearly.

Fíli took a careful breath, counted in his head: _1, 2, 3, 4, 5_ like his da suggested. “It is . . .” he asked, swallowed, finished, “Is it hard to be king?”

“Ah.” Blue eyes studied him. “I have never been a king. Your grandfather-”

“Da says you’re as good as king!” Fíli blurted, already appalled at his own rudeness but this was _important_. “He says the people call you king, down in the market!”

A sigh. “Yes. I supposed they do.” A motion, and Fíli stepped closer. “Very well. Yes, Fíli. It is very hard to be king. A king has to make terribly difficult decisions every day. He is often alone. And we are a people far from home, which makes it worse.”

Fíli bit his lip, shifted from foot to foot. It was hard not to squirm, when he felt like there were bats in his belly, trying to get out. 

Thorin smiled then, soothing. “It’s good too, Fíli.”

“It is?” Disbelieving. It didn’t seem good. Not at all. Thorin was always very serious, and a little sad, even when he laughed and smiled.

“Yes. Kings get to take care of people. We get to make our people happy.”

“I . . .” Fíli smiled back, just a little, ducking his head. “I like to make people happy.”

Warm hands wrapped around his and drew him closer, until he could reach out and tangle his fingers in the fur of his uncle’s coat and cuddle in, just a little. Thorin’s voice was deep and loud in his chest. “I know you do,” his uncle said, one broad hand on Fíli’s back. “You work hard every day to make your mother and your father and little Kíli happy. And you’re very good at it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“. . . And that’s good? For a king?” Because Fíli didn’t feel like a king, not at all, but he would be some day. “To be nice and make people happy.”

“Kindness,” Thorin told him, his warm breath fluttering through Fíli’s hair as he hugged the boy close, “is always a wonderful trait in a king.”

**Eighteen**

Fíli’s world changed immeasurably after his conversation with the Company for one reason: Durin knew he knew.

No longer was the father of their people a lurking, mysterious presence at the back of his mind. He was a _person_ , fully formed, with six long lifetimes of memories and knowledge at his disposal. Durin was a king.

But so was Fíli.

Kíli smiled the next morning as he lowered the new circlet into place. “They want you to have a proper one made when everyone’s home,” he said, “something grand enough for the king of Erebor.”

_As you should. Proper artisans will return to the mountain._

Fíli turned and looked in the mirror – the same one he had seen Thorin’s crown in, when Durin took it from his uncle’s body and wore it, not so long ago. His crown shone in the torchlight, three thick ropes of gold intertwining to a point on his brow. “No,” he said, because it was simple, because it spoke of Kíli’s hands in his hair, setting his braids to rights, of their mother’s deft hand at bead-making, of the Company that made it for him in secret, “this one is perfect.”

Durin growled in his mind, and Fíli tried to ignore it.

_Not enough, not enough for a king. Barely enough for an heir! I wouldn’t have let one of my sons wear that!_

“I am not your son,” Fíli murmured, and he didn’t miss the look of concern Kíli shot his way. He offered his brother a smile, tugged him down for a sweet kiss. “When it’s just us, sometimes it’s easier to talk back.”

Kíli’s return smile was wobbly, but there. He tugged lightly on the braid at Fíli’s right temple and said, “I think I know what you mean, even if she’s a lot calmer to deal with.”

Fíli was glad for that. He didn’t want to think of his brother fighting Durin’s thoughts, Durin’s anger and frustration. There had been a time, when he first took up twin swords, when Dwalin would make him hold them constantly, fight constantly, building up equal strength and speed in both arms. He’d thought, at the end of those long days, he would never be so exhausted again.

He was wrong.

Almost every moment Fíli was awake, Durin pushed. He prodded. He commented. Fíli’s only peace came at night, tangled with Kíli on the bed, an act of love turning into an act of desperation as Durin turned away in disgust. 

_You will never have heirs._ he would growl, but Fíli knew he suspected, that Senna was in Kíli. He thought he saw her sometimes, in his brother’s eyes, reaching out as Durin curled away. _I have no taste for males._

Durin missed her, an ache in the back of Fíli’s mind, and she was right in front of him. 

“She loves him,” Kíli would whisper in the dark. “She obeys him because she loves him.”

“Fight me,” Fíli answered, kissing him fiercely. “Fight me because you love me.”

Kíli smiled, gentled the kiss, grinned and teased and said, “I always have,” before pulling Fíli on top of him and chasing away the ghosts with pleasure and affection.

The first time Fíli took Kíli into himself, Durin was so furious that Fíli laughed and arched and squirmed for more. “This is mine!” he shouted, and Kíli understood, and laughed too. 

But there was work to be done, and Fíli and Kíli couldn’t hide away in their bed and each other forever. The mountain was still being prepared, trade with the Men had to be dealt with, Dain’s soldiers prepared for departure, and ravens flew in from Ered Luin with tidings from their mother and their people, anxious for spring and the long trek home.

Fíli worked, but every moment, he fought.

For three days, very decision was questioned, every thought examined. It took every ounce of his concentration to bid Dain a friendly farewell as he and his soldiers left the mountain.

_Good. Warn him away. Keep him there, in his mountain, where he belongs._

“He’s not my enemy,” Fíli whispered as he walked to the remains of the giant doors, as repaired as they could make it in the time they’d had. “He’s my cousin, and a good dwarf who saved us when we needed it. I will welcome him and his family back, when the time comes.

_He will come back for your crown-_

“He will come back as my cousin,” Fíli returned, before turning the corner and losing any ability to talk back, fight back, defend himself.

Dain met him with a smile, huge and kind as ever. “The crown suits you,” he said, and Fíli smiled back-

_Ridiculous, not even worthy of a second son_

and answered, “Thank you for all your help. We would all be dead, if not for you.”

Dain studied him, reached out and rested his hands on Fíli’s shoulders. He was a big dwarf, broad in the chest, loud and boisterous, something wild in his grin and his voice. But he was kind. “Take care of yourself, King Under the Mountain,” he said, his booming voice lowered to something like a murmur. “I know something ails you, and I see you’re winning against it. I believe you have what it makes to be a great king. Hold on to your Company, hold on to yourself.” He squeezed once and let go. “And get some sleep, lad, your face is turning into one giant shadow!”

When Dain left the mountain, he took a great deal of life and noise with him.

\-----

He waited nearly four days to deal with the Women who had stolen gold. It was, perhaps, too long, and he knew it; but he needed time, to center himself, to connect with the Company, to curl up with Kili and remember who he was. He forgave himself the delay.

Three Women had been separated into a small side room once used to provide visiting lords with their own offices. Fíli greeted her with Dwalin and Kíli behind his shoulders – Kíli on the right, Dwalin on the left – the warrior’s hand on his hammer and Kíli’s breaths a little fast with nerves.

The obvious leader was a nondescript woman, tall and solid, her dark eyes angry as she stood to tower over all of them. Fíli remembered her, from those moments in the great hall, shouting at him as he drowned and Durin rose to face her. “You can finally be bothered to speak to me then?” she asked scornfully.

“Hetta!” hissed one of the others, smaller and frightened, pulling on her arm. 

Fíli looked between them. 

“Do you understand,” he asked, “why you’re being held here?”

_Don’t talk to them! Just take care of this!_

The big Woman – Hetta - tossed her head and glared down at him with disdain. “Because we tried to take what _your_ king,” her eyes flickered over his forehead, the press of gold against his skin, “promised us!”

The smaller one tugged again, leaned around her to say, “She means . . . we realize we were in the wrong. Of course you’ll follow through on your word-”

“He’ll do no such thing!” Hetta growled, and spat on the clean cave floor like an animal.

Anger welled in Fíli’s mind, and he didn’t know for an instant if it was his own or Durin’s. 

Either way, he wouldn’t let it blind him. 

He motioned to Dwalin, who moved around him with a soft sound of approval – Fíli didn’t turn his back on their prisoners. “Did they return the gold?”

“Aye.” 

“All three?”

“Aye, though the big one didn’t do it without a fuss.”

Fíli looked over his prisoners. His prisoners, such a strange thought, not something he’d truly considered despite knowing he would one day be king – that he should have lives in his hands in this way, and not just in terms of supplies and wars. “Remove the two who gave the gold back. Don’t put them in with the others just yet – have Dori and Nori take them to Balin’s office and hold them there for now.” 

Dwalin nodded once and turned to the heavy door, turning the iron key he carried on him at all times and opening it to issue orders to Dori and Nori, who stood waiting outside. The two smaller Women went without a fuss – the quiet one whimpering a soft _thank you_ that turned Fíli’s stomach while Durin praised her diffidence. 

“They’re not our slaves,” he murmured on a breath. “They’re not even my subjects.”

_They can be taught to fear and obey, before their people turn on us._

That killing a Woman would turn the Men against them faster than anything else didn’t seem to register with Durin.

Fíli wondered, sometimes, if Durin had always been so blind. He didn’t think so. He saw glimpses of a kind king, a loving father, an immensely lonely dwarf who lived too many lives and didn’t know why.

Then he saw glimpses of a ring, and something cold would curl around his heart and squeeze.

He turned to his final prisoner. “Would you care to sit?” he asked, drawing on memories of Bilbo’s hobbit politeness rather than the more direct approach of dwarves.

“No.” Short, to the point.

Ah, well, that would allow him to be the same.

“You stole from us,” he said, “after we offered you a place to stay.”

“I took what your king promised us!” she spat. “All share in the wealth of the mountain?! That’s a far cry from watching my husband burn alive and becoming your prisoners!”

_Ungrateful wretch._

“You are not our prisoners. Bard asked-”

“Bard. Bard the _bargeman?!_ ”

_Do not interrupt me!_

“He stinks of the river and made a living hauling empty barrels! He is no lord of mine, to order me into a mountain filled with stunted animals!”

This anger was Fíli’s. This anger was Durin’s.

The shame – the sense that she was right, the echo of Thorin’s words: _enough wealth to rebuild Esgaroth ten times over!_

That was all Fíli’s. 

He took a slow breath.

_You allow her to speak to you this way._

“Gold has been allocated to you. We will assist with the rebuilding of Dale.”

“Dwarves don’t do anything to benefit Men!”

 _Put her down!_ The voice echoed, it jolted along his bones and pounded at his eyes and he thought-

“It’s in both our people’s best interest that Dale be safe and prosperous-”

“So we can serve you!”

_Make an example of her!_

Pain exploded behind Fíli’s eyes, a splash of red, fury and insult.

“Enough!” he snarled, and it was his voice, it was him, talking to her, talking to this thing in his head, begging for peace. “Enough! You are safe and warm because of our people! Because we’ve given you a place to stay!”

He bit back more words, couldn’t let her know he was half-mad, couldn’t say _You only exist because you’ve stolen my body, because you tear at my soul!_

_Put her down!_

She opened her mouth to speak and Fíli struck out, fast, striking fast, once to her stomach, once to her shoulder, knocking her to his knees. She cried out as she fell.

He didn’t meant to, he didn’t mean to, he-

“You will not speak to me in that tone again,” he told her, and where did he end, where did Durin begin, because he was angry too, so angry and so _tired._

A hand grabbed his elbow, pulled him back, and a voice said, “Fíli, Fíli,” and it was the voice he loved most in all the world, it was

Kíli’s voice

_Senna’s voice_

He twisted away. “Let me deal with this!” 

The hands let go. He turned to the Woman, to his prisoner. He looked her in the eyes.

She was defiant.

She was afraid.

“I cannot allow you to show disrespect to me,” he said, and his voice was so reasonable, so calm, his voice, Fíli who watched and listened and learned before he spoke. “I can’t simply allow you to go back out there and sow discord among your people, spreading lies about how we have wronged and will wrong you. It will only hurt my people, and yours.”

She stared at him. 

“My husband is dead,” she whispered, and he wondered what she saw in his face.

“As is my uncle,” he answered, and something twisted in his gut, something _laughed_ , and it was _him_ , because what did she know of death that he didn’t know? He was dead. He was dead on the battlefield, disappearing in a flash of light.

She looked down and away. Her arms wrapped protectively around her stomach as if she expected a blow there. He saw, when she did, a gentle curve.

_Ah._

“I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded like broken glass.

He shook his head, and there was real regret. “It’s too late for that. You stole from us in the most disrespectful way possible.”

“I only - I wanted your attention I wanted to – to make a point-”

“There was gold on the floor and gold on the walls, and you chose instead to tear it from a statue. Do you have any idea who that was?”

“. . . No . . .”

“Durin,” he said, and the name-the name.

“Durin the Deathless. The father of our people.”

_Durin._

_Durin._

“There’s only one thing to be done with you, Hettie.” He reached out, rested a hand briefly on her head. 

She shook.

“You must be executed. For the good of your people.”

And Fíli knew he had lost.

“Fíli! No!” Kíli moved around him, grabbed for him, and another as well-Dwalin.

Dwalin threw himself in front of the Woman, knelt there, and drew his war hammer. 

“I will not allow you to condemn this Woman to death for anger and foolishness,” Dwalin said, and his voice was sad, “in the body of my king.”

The Woman sobbed.

Fíli’s body moved. It shoved Kíli away, a sharp blow to his ribs-

_I know how to use this body now, tiny thing that you are._

“Please-” a sob, and was it the Woman or was it Fíli, or was it both?

The sound of his swords sliding from their sheathes was so familiar it was almost comforting-almost a reminder of the home they’d lost to regain this one, of years spent on the training grounds of Ered Luin. But it wasn’t, not when steel flew through the air

_Do you think they’ll stand by you with this blood on your hands, boy?_

And he knew this was a plan, he knew this was why he’d had those moments of peace, he knew this was what Durin wanted. His swords-

Slicing toward Dwalin’s throat.


	19. Chapter 19

**Nineteen**

The sound of steel striking steel was sharp, and the impact made Kíli’s arm ache – he didn’t have his angle right, he hadn’t set his feet for the impact. But how could he?

It had been Fíli.

It had been Fíli, and then suddenly-

Kíli twisted, pushing at Dwalin’s shoulder as he heard a roar of fury that he dimly realized was Fíli. Dwalin had moved fast of course, evading the blade Kíli couldn’t block in his wild rush forward. Kíli was twisted even now at an odd angle, but he shoved himself under it, pressed up against Fíli’s blade. “No!” he shouted, and the Woman of Laketown cried out behind him.

“Get her out of here!” he ordered, even as his sword moved and Fíli’s slammed against it.

“I won’t leave you alone,” a growl, defiant, though Dwalin was still on his knees. 

Kíli set his feet properly, kept his eyes on Fíli’s-

No. 

Kept his eyes on _Durin’s._

“You will not lay hands on Dwalin.”

Durin smiled at him, a slice of a thing that didn’t suit Fíli’s face at all, made a mockery of it. “I will do what I please, princeling. Step aside.”

_You are not so cruel as this._

The voice in his head was heartbroken, but Kíli couldn’t answer – couldn’t do anything but shove at Dwalin again as Durin feinted around him. He was faster on his feet now, not overreaching. How had he learned Fíli’s body so quickly?!

_The greatest warrior of any age. We must always be able to adapt, in our lives._

Kíli already had his heavy longsword in hand; now he pulled the dagger from his belt, blocking another blow, Fíli’s blade scraping down to the guard of his. “Get her out the door and close it!” he snapped, “Before she’s hurt or someone sees!” 

Dwalin moved almost instinctively, grabbing the woman and tossing her behind him. She cowered, trying to stay behind his shorter, broader frame, muttering _I’m sorry I’m sorry_ as he pushed her toward the door.

“What do you hope to gain from this?” Kíli demanded. 

Durin whirled, ignoring him, stabbing forward for Dwalin’s exposed neck. But Kíli shoved him from behind, ruining his balance, not enough to send him sprawling, but enough for Dwalin to wrench the door open and toss the woman through, to Dori and Gloin in the hallway. 

He didn’t follow.

He slammed the door shut.

_This isn’t Durin. He isn’t like this._

Durin stood still, and then smiled.

A flash of dimples, a step to the side, and then he twirled both wrists, a flourish that Fíli was fond of. 

“He’s manipulating us,” Dwalin snarled, and Kíli knew that, but it still made him falter, and Durin struck forward, aiming again for Dwalin, and Kíli only barely knocked his right arm away as Dwalin handled the left. 

“You won’t gain anything from harming us!”

“I’m not interested in harming you, princeling.” Durin’s eyes were steady, holding them both in one gaze, never flickering. 

_He knows I’m here. He knows._

“I’ll not let you kill me,” Dwalin snarled, and he struck out – a blow to the blade, a wrench of his hammer. Kíli knew the move, designed to disarm, they’d fallen for it countless times in their childhoods-

Durin laughed and reversed it, threw his weight behind it, twisted the sword and grabbed the hammer and wrenched it from Dwalin’s shocked hands. It fell to the stone with a crash. 

_Don’t hurt him!_

“Let me?” Durin asked, striking out, drawing blood, a sharp line that spliced into Dwalin’s exposed forearm. 

Fíli always kept his weapons in top condition. 

Dwalin roared, blood splashing to the floor as he grabbed his dagger-

“Ah,” Durin said as he danced back, lighter on his feet now, like Fíli, “but you won’t kill me, will you? I can make an example of you, but you won’t do the same to me. Not with your weakling of a prince cowering in the back of my mind.”

 _He is not like this!_

_The dwarf I married – three times, three lives – he could be unrelenting-_

Durin moved like water, like a snake, so fast that Kíli could barely keep up, with such strength that he threw Dwalin back again and again. 

_But he was kind. He was kind to me._

Metal crashed and sweat stung Kíli’s eyes and he could have struck – once, twice – could have drawn blood, but-

_You can’t harm him!_

He couldn’t, he couldn’t, Durin had every advantage, even in a fight of two on one. He had no compunctions about harming Dwalin, while neither of his opponents was willing to hurt him.

Durin drove them around the small space, backed them into walls, sent them scrambling over furniture. 

_Let me talk to him._

“Dwalin! Get out!”

“I’ll not leave you here with this thing!”

“Thing?!” Durin roared, and his fury gave him even more speed.

Kíli fell backwards, took Durin’s boot to his chest, his breath disappearing. He lay dazed a moment and it was almost too long.

_My love! I’m here! I’m here! You’re not alone!_

“When I kill you,” Durin growled as Dwalin faced him alone, as the big dwarf backed away because he could take a strike – Durin left himself open, either reckless or a tease or just knowing that Dwalin wouldn’t crush his ribs with the great hammer. “When our people come, they will have a leader worthy of them.”

_A murderer?_

Kíli gasped for air.

The world swam.

A face-

Gentle hazel eyes, a pleasant face, thick red-gold hair – not a great beauty, but he knew her: the lady of the ravens.

 _He knows I’m here,_ she whispered, _He won’t touch you because of that. But he denies it. You have to let me talk to him._

“He’s mad,” a cough of sound as Kíli pushed to his knees, as he tried to shake the vision away. But she stayed there, blocking his eyes, and the sound of ravens echoed in his ears.

 _He’s alone._

A low grunt – Dwalin – the rustle of boots and the clang of weapons.

_Your brother will not forgive himself if Durin kills your cousin in his body._

“I know that. That’s why I’m going to stop it.” On his feet, longsword in hand, and there was his brother’s back, open to him, he could kill Durin in a stroke.

_He will only come back. I don’t know why. He doesn’t know why. But he will._

Kíli forced himself to move, to rush forward, to ignore the familiar curve of his brother’s back, the fall of Fíli’s hair. He made himself look at Dwalin, blood on his face from a cut on his head, blood on his arm, and he struck out with the flat of his blade, slamming it with all his strength across Durin’s shoulders. 

Durin stumbled, but he didn’t fall.

_He knows pain._

”No,” Kíli whispered, because he couldn’t do it, couldn’t cut him-

Durin whirled and struck out. There was no expression in his eyes, only a cold focus.

Kíli didn’t think Durin saw him anymore.

“Stop him,” he whispered, and he gave himself over to those eyes, the flapping of wings.

_“Stop, my love.”_

His voice, but strangely high, and the words were smooth, perfect Khuzdul, limited by the strict formality of that language. 

Durin faltered.

 _“You know I am here, my king. You deny me, but I am here. You would not harm me. You swore, before Mahal himself, that you would never let harm befall me._ ”

Kíli felt himself fading back. He could see through his eyes, but he couldn’t move his body, only watch. _This is what it’s been for Fíli,_ he thought, and felt a flash of terror at the thought of this happening unexpectedly, against his will. 

Fíli was always stronger than he believed himself to be.

“Senna.”

Senna lifted Kíli’s arms, held them open even as she fell to one knee, subservient and graceful. “My king.”

“It cannot be you.”

 _“You have known it is me for days, my love.”_ Kíli felt himself smile, his chin rise. He realized with a start that she had made herself smaller and less threatening, closer to Durin’s expectations from their lives together.

“You are not a man.”

A soft laugh. _“It seems our Maker says otherwise, this time.”_

She rose, and stepped forward. With steady hands, she reached out and lifted first one blade and then the other from Durin’s hands. She stepped away, resting them on the bench carved from the stone. She knelt to lay them down carefully, presenting her back.

She trusted him implicitly, yet she moved as slowly as if working with wild birds.

“I thought you had not come with me.”

 _Oh_ , Kíli thought, because that sounded too much like his Fíli: uncertain, though he would never have heard it if he hadn’t grown up at his brother’s side. Fíli could look and sound utterly confident, if you didn’t know how to hear the uncertainty lingering below. 

_“I am always with you.”_ She turned, and for a moment her gaze – Kíli’s gaze, their gaze – flickered to Dwalin, and Kíli’s hand gestured for him to step away.

Kíli watched, awed, as Dwalin obeyed.

_“This is not you, my love. You are not a tyrant, who kills without cause.”_

“The Woman needs to die. An example must be made.”

_“It is not the Woman you fight now.”_

“They will support me if they fear me.” 

_“Perhaps.”_ Kíli’s hands wrapped around Fíli’s, and both Durin and Senna flinched a little at it – Kíli’s longer fingers, wrapping around Fíli’s smaller ones. _“I would not have you kill him.”_

A growl, that coldness in his eyes. “That isn’t your choice to make!”

_“It is my mercy to beg.”_

Durin sighed. 

For a moment, a memory: Durin, a big dwarf, older, a long black beard and fierce scars, taking small hands in his, looking down into Kíli’s (Senna’s, Senna’s) eyes, swearing _If you will become my Consort, I will listen to your council. I will keep you beside me._

She had not known what that truly meant: to stay beside Durin. 

Dwalin leaned against the wall, the bleeding arm tucked around his waist. “Kíli?” he asked.

Senna turned Kíli’s head, and offered Dwalin that gentle smile, but Durin snarled at the loss of her attention and she returned it. _“You will not kill him?”_

“I will not.”

_“And the Woman?”_

“That is a matter of safety, and my decision to make.”

Senna nodded, acquiescing, even as Kíli screamed _The Men will turn on us! They’ll kill us all!_

He began to fight.

Senna was a soothing presence, cool and calm and deeply loving. Fighting her was like swimming in warm water, with the surface much too far away.

_I won’t let you keep me! I won’t let him have Fíli! I won’t let him kill that Woman and turn Bard against us!_

Bard, who took them in when he was dying.

Durin’s hands tightened in his.

“Kíli,” he said, the word rough, and Kíli wasn’t sure if he heard it or imagined it. He thought perhaps it was in his mind.

_Fíli!_

“I’m pleased you’re here, though I don’t understand why you would be brought back like this.”

_Fíli!_

_“Nor do I. But when have we ever been allowed to understand what and why we are?”_

“I will not fight this child for a body that should be mine!”

Kíli struggled, and a flash of terror:

_The battlefield._

_Fíli at his feet, the flash of white bone, gurgling breaths, bubbling blood on his lips._

_The first arrow, hard in his shoulder, knocking him to his knees._

_Fíli’s eyes, a last terrible cough._

_His chest stopped moving._

_“Fíli! Fíli! No, no I’m here, don’t you dare-”_

_Another arrow, low in his back, pain that felt as if it split him in two._

_Fíli’s eyes-_

_Another arrow, another, Kíli falling over his brother’s body. Fíli was dead. It didn’t matter._

_Death was gentle. Hands lifted his body as his soul rose from the pain and he heard a voice-_

_“Kíli!”_

_The voice he loved best in all the world, a voice he took for granted, and he tried to answer, “Fi-”_

_But then-_

_A horrible light, like lightning, searing pain._

_The passing of something gentle in the dark._

_Fíli’s voice._

_“KÍLI!”_

_Darkness._

Kíli’s body fell, and Senna with it, as the memory of that moment when he was meant to die and scatter crashed through his mind, blinding him, threatened to rip consciousness away. 

Fíli caught him.

“Kíli!”

Not Durin, no.

Fíli.

Fíli, reaching for him on the field, reaching for his soul, meant to pass with him to the Halls and instead holding them together, holding them as one, dragging them back as Durin and Senna passed them, as they should have been annihilated.

 _Fíli saved us,_ Kíli thought.

But he didn’t know it.

**XIX**

Kíli fell, and Fíli’s return to himself was so sudden it came as a shock. 

But he reached out and caught him, went to his knees, pulled Kíli against himself. “Kíli,” he said, because Kíli’s name was what kept him in control, what jerked him forward. “Kíli.”

Kíli curled in his arms, buried his eyes in Fíli’s shoulder. His hands rose and tangled in Fíli’s shirt, as they did when they were children, and Kíli woke with nightmares. 

He wished with all his heart that they could wake from this one.

 _Senna!_ Raved the immortal being in his mind, but Fíli shoved him away and pressed a kiss to Kíli’s forehead.

He would not give up his body to Durin, with Dwalin bleeding behind him and Kíli in his arms. Even if he couldn’t win in the long run – even if he wasn’t strong enough – he would not give in now.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

“Fíli.” Kíli’s eyes fluttered open, centered on him. “You saved us.”

Fíli smiled. “No, Kíli. It was you. You saved Dwalin. You let Senna talk to Durin.”

“No, not now. Before. You’re the reason we’re alive.”

Fíli felt a flash of fear. Had Kíli hit his head? He’d seen dwarves with head injuries before – spent months with Bifur – knew that it played tricks on the mind and heart. “Shh, just lie still.”

Kíli shook his head. “No, I need you to understand-”

“I will.” This time the kiss was to his lips, feather-soft. “I will. But we have to take care of Dwalin now.”

Kíli opened his mouth to argue, but, “I’m well enough, now you’re here,” Dwalin grunted, and Fíli couldn’t hide a small laugh, couldn’t keep from sharing a glance with his Kíli that was full of rare, wonderful laughter. 

Kíli shifted and sat up without pulling away, without truly letting go. “Of course you are. That’s why you’re bleeding all over the floor.”

They turned as one as Dwalin knelt carefully beside them. His head was bleeding, and his arm, and Fíli felt the twist of fear and fury in his belly, the rise of bile in his throat. He did that.

“Durin did it,” Dwalin said, before Fíli could apologize. “It wasn’t you.”

Fíli took a slow breath. 

“Yes,” he said, “and he will again. He wanted to kill you to make the others afraid. He thought they would bow out of fear.”

“We’re already behind you.”

“Yes. But he wants you behind him.” Fíli shifted, keeping his right arm around Kíli as he reached out with his left and rested it on the bad slice on Dwalin’s arm. “We’re going to sew and bandage this,” he said, his voice quiet and even. “And we’re going to talk about what happens next.”

“Fíli?” Kíli asked, and Fíli saw the fear in his eyes. He knew what Fíli was going to say, and he’d fight Fíli on it. But this time, he couldn’t let Kíli fight him, for love of him. 

“Senna is more reasonable than Durin.”

“Fíli. No. She obeys him-”

“And she’s less violent.” Fíli stood and took Kíli’s hands, pulling his brother to his feet. 

“Fíli.” Kíli was almost begging, and Dwalin was watching them, but there was no choice. 

Fíli held his brother’s hands, raised them to his lips, kissed the delicate pulse with all the wonder and reverence he’d been taught to keep for their Maker. He imagined his brother, who never wanted to be king, his brother who was the spare, his brother who held his heart in clever hands – imagined Kíli as king.

It was not so hard to see. Not anymore.

“Until Gandalf returns,” he said, because it might be forever but Kíli wasn’t ready for that yet, “Kíli must be king.”

“Fíli-”

Fíli kissed his fingers. “Dwalin will stand by you. And I will do all I can to control Durin until the wizard comes.”

He looked at Dwalin, who stared back at him. Blood dripped sluggishly down his left temple, curving around his eye. 

This was why it had to be done.

Fíli’s voice was calm. “Gloin swore to me in the camp that he would stand behind Kíli. Will you as well?” 

“Fíli,” Kíli whispered, but he knew it was right, he wasn’t arguing, just . . . holding on.

Dwalin bowed his head, blood dripping to the floor. “I will stand with him. Kíli will never be alone.”

Fíli didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve this loyalty, after what he had done. But he would take it.

For Kíli, he would take it.

He smiled. He didn’t say thank you. Dwalin wouldn’t want it. He said only, “Let’s see about that arm,” as he squeezed Kíli’s hands and let them go.

He had to let go, of so many things.

He had to let Kíli take care of the Company, and preparations for the refugees’ return in the spring.

He could focus on only one thing:

Keeping the father of his people at bay, lest his strange madness lead them all to ruin.


	20. Chapter 20

**Twenty**

Gandalf returned to the mountain weeks later than he’d intended.

Erebor looked much the same as when he had left it, two months before; the great gates hanging from their hinges, the Men camped at the base. Gandalf spared no time for the Men, only hurried forward to find Gloin standing guard at the small gate built into the temporary barricade.

“Take me to the king,” Gandalf said, and he rarely felt fear, but the slow, considering look Gloin gave him sent a fissure of something up his spine. 

“What is it?” he demanded, but Gloin wouldn’t answer. He only motioned for Gandalf to follow him.

They had cleared the smaller of the two throne rooms, the one Thror had used for visiting dignitaries he didn’t feel the need to impress. No elf would ever be welcome here, but Gandalf had known it, once or twice, then Thror was young and wise, before the gold took hold of his mind. 

Gloin opened the door and motioned him through.

“The king,” he said, and there was something accusing in his voice. 

Gandalf swept through, his head held high, even as his senses screamed that something was very wrong, something had happened-

Kíli stood beside the throne.

He was dressed in rich blue fabrics, and in that moment looked so like a young Thorin that Gandalf nearly mistook him for his uncle. Young, and just as tired, shadows under his eyes and his once-laughing mouth drawn into a straight line with the weight of responsibility.

With the weight of the crown that rested on his brow, twists of gold that would have suited better the head of his brother.

 _I have come too late_ , Gandalf thought, and he regretted.

He regretted.

Gandalf was not used to guilt, to regrets. He did what must be done. And yet…

Having seen Durin staring out at him from the eyes of Thorin’s kind young heir, to know something had gone so terribly wrong that Fíli was still trapped there as well…

Mortal lives must sometimes be sacrificed for the greater good. That did not mean Gandalf could do so without regrets. Or that he would not try to put right what he could.

 

“Gandalf,” Kíli said, and where was the wide-eyed young dwarf who met him, only a year ago, as they prepared for their journey? “You’ve taken your time.” His voice was low and rough with exhaustion, the resemblance to Thorin even more striking.

“I came as soon as I could.” Gandalf didn’t apologize, because the words were true. It had not been so easy, to gain an audience with Saruman, who had gone off alone after the battle, or to convince the White Wizard to help him. Despite the Istari’s cause in coming to Arda, he had little interest in the affairs of mortals, and even less in the race of Dwarves specifically. “Where is Fíli?”

Kíli watched him, wary and much too old. “Do you have any hope to offer him?” he demanded. “Can you help him?”

“If he lives,” Gandalf answered, “I will help him.”

Kíli breathed. Slow, careful breaths, utterly controlled; the care of a prince afraid to believe in the impossible. A prince afraid of miracles.

 _What I have wrought,_ Gandalf thought, seeing again the young Kíli at Bilbo’s table, laughing and eating and supremely confident. 

“I’ll take you to him.”

He walked like a king, sedate, his back straight, strangely graceful. It felt….wrong. 

_Durin’s consort_ , he thought, and cursed himself for not catching it sooner. 

Kíli led him silently down the hall to the royal apartments. He paused for only a moment outside the door, opening his mouth as if to say something, then closing it. He shook his head once and reached for the handle.

The door was unlocked.

The first thing Gandalf heard was a voice. Fíli’s voice, a steady rise and fall of words.

The first he saw was young Ori, sitting and sketching. “Gandalf!” he cried, surprised, but Kíli raised a hand and Ori fell silent.

“He’s here,” Kíli said, stepping forward, and it took Gandalf a moment to realize the young king wasn’t speaking to him, but to his brother.

Fíli.

Fíli was curled in the corner of the room, half-hidden in shadow, his hands buried in the fall of hair, the tangled remains of braids.

Talking.

“But if we went back to execute the Woman, it would anger the Men,” Fíli said, his voice somehow strong and faint all at once, tired but carefully sensible. Scattered around him were crumpled papers, carefully pressed flat again; sketches and drawings in Ori’s style, smiling faces and good memories. Some were torn, they were all damaged in one way or another, but they remained. “Bard would turn on us, and we’ll do better with Dale active again, dealing with the outside world that doesn’t like working directly with dwarves.”

“He ate,” Ori said, “and slept a little.”

Kíli smiled, sad but genuine. “Thank you Ori.”

“So you’ve said, but you’re not looking at the bigger picture, considering long-term ramifications of angering the Men-”

“He’s gone mad,” Gandalf murmured, listening to the steady flow of words, looking at the pale fingers through tangled hair. “Two people cannot peacefully coexist in one body.”

Kili’s voice was sharp, angry. “He’s not mad. He’s talking to Durin.” His hands curled into fists at his side, though there was pride in his voice. “Durin tried to kill Dwalin, to make a point. Fíli controls him by arguing with him. But he doesn’t sleep enough, and it’s hard for him to hold on when he stops to eat.” 

Gandalf made a small sound of surprise.

It was a brilliant move. Durin had grown increasingly confrontational in his last lives – Gandalf suspected the influence of the ring he’d carried, as well as the Balrog deep below Moria. He was argumentative and certain of himself. Fíli was staying alive, holding on to himself, protecting his people by arguing with the voice in his mind. 

Judging by the roughness of his once-smooth voice, the dark shadows under his eyes, the oily lankness of his hair, he had been at it for days. Possibly weeks.

He would drive himself mad or to the grave, if he continued like this.

“Fíli,” called the King of Erebor, gently, but Fíli didn’t hear. He only argued on, now about the gold and its allocation.

“Removing it from the mountain could break the curse on it-”

His voice was sharp and fast, an argument he’d had dozens of time, a desperate bid for freedom and attention, a purposeful plan. Thorin’s heir had always been bright.

It hurt Gandalf’s heart to see him reduced to this, a ball of tight muscles and pattering voice and shivering exhaustion.

“Fíli.” Kíli lowered himself to the floor, mindful of the scattered pages, and reached out to touch Fíli’s wrist, just below his hand, where blood pumped in a steady pulse. “I’m here. You can take a break.”

Fíli shuddered. “I can’t,” he gritted out, even as he curved a little, pressed his cheek to Kíli’s arm. “I can’t, he’ll-”

Kili kissed him. 

A gentle press of his lips against the furrowed brow, a slow breath. 

“Gandalf is here,” he whispered. “He’s come to help us.”

_Us._

Gandalf looked between them, at Kíli’s arms around his brother, Kíli’s breath ruffling Fíli’s hair, at Fíli’s protective hand on Kíli’s arm. 

Yes. It would be both, or nothing. 

He had not expected this development, though perhaps he should have. If he had paid more attention on the Quest, he would have known.

Fíli’s eyes opened. 

“Tharkûn,” he snarled, “I need no help from _wizards_!”

Kíli’s eyes closed a moment, pained. “Please,” he said, and then in another voice, and ah, there she was, “Please, my love. You trusted him once.”

“That was before he said nothing of the Balrog! Before he left us to die!”

Durin struggled in Fíli’s body, shoved Kíli away, tangled in the bits of Fíli’s happiness, pictures of Fíli and Kíli together, of the Company, of Kíli’s smile. 

How many times had Fíli used those to center himself?

Ori darted forward, snatching them up, gathering them in his arms. “These are Fíli’s!” he growled, and how strong were dwarves, especially these young ones. How the world underestimated them. How Gandalf, in all his wisdom, had underestimated them.

Gandalf stepped forward.

“Keep your distance!” Durin growled and then, softer, calmer, an order, “Help us.” Fíli’s eyes, clear, as Gandalf knelt before him, as he reached out. “Help my people.”

When Gandalf pressed a hand to Fíli’s forehead, Durin roared.

He roared and fought, ripped his head away, banged it against the wall.

“Fíli!” Kíli cried, and he reached out, grabbed for Fíli’s arms.

“Hold him or he’ll hurt himself!” Gandalf ordered, and the look Kíli gave him wasn’t one of trust, but only of desperation, as he gathered his struggling brother against him, pressed them both down to the hard stone. 

Durin fought, but Kíli held him, wrapped around him, kissed the back of his neck. “I’m here, Fíli, I’m here,” he said again and again as Ori stepped forward, fell to his knees, tried to hold the flailing feet.

“How far you have fallen, my friend,” Gandalf murmured, “from the great king you once were.”

He pressed his hand to Fíli’s forehead.

Power flowed through him; a gentle power, a skill learned from Aiwendil so long ago, when they still lived among their own, when they were Maiar and not Istari. Radagast’s kindness had been manifest even then.

It soothed.

Two spirits struggled inside the small body, one young and determined, one ancient and fierce. Gandalf brushed by the former, pressed against the latter. _Rest_ , he thought, as he had to Thorin on the Carrock. _Rest and heal._

Durin fought. He fought with the strength of six lives – _no_ , Gandalf realized with a start, _of seven, the final so short he never gained his own name_ – and with fear. Fear of death. Fear of rebirth. 

_Rest_ , Gandalf urged, and Durin’s spirit dimmed, darkened.

Durin’s spirit slept.

Gandalf opened his eyes to see Fíli, limp in his brother’s arms, his lips parted, sweaty and tired.

“It’s quiet,” Fíli whispered, and Kíli sobbed, shifted, leaned over him. 

“Fíli,” Kíli breathed. “Are you all right? Your head-”

“I can hear your voice.” There was a faint flash of dimples. “I’ve missed hearing it.”

“Is it done?!” Kíli demanded, lifting his gaze for only a moment to meet Gandalf’s. The dark eyes were bright with tears. “Is he healed?”

Gandalf shook his head regretfully. “No. A mind as powerful as Durin’s will not be so easily banished. He is there, but sleeping. He will sleep for some time. Perhaps two days.”

Hope disappeared from Kíli’s eyes, and the tears overflowed.

Fíli raised a hand, shaking with exhaustion. He was barely conscious, obviously fighting to stay awake for even a few more moments, but he reached for his brother, touched Kíli’s face. “Kíli,” he whispered. His trembling fingers brushed the tears away. “You’re so tired.”

Kíli laughed, low and without humor. “You’re one to talk.” He caught that hand and kissed the palm. “You can sleep now. I’ll talk to Gandalf.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone.”

Kíli smiled. “I won’t be. I’ll stay here, with you.” He leaned forward, pressed his mouth to Fíli’s, a long moment of nothing more than that gentle touch. “Sleep. Sleep now, while it’s safe. We’ll talk when you wake up.”

Fíli fought it. He fought it, but only for a few precious seconds before his eyes fluttered shut and he relaxed in his lover’s arms.

Kíli breathed.

Kissed him again, gathered him up. “Ori,” he said, and Ori scrambled up, hurried to the bed and pulled down the covers as Kíli lurched gracelessly to his feet, Fíli’s head against his shoulder.

He lowered Fíli into the bed as if he was the most delicate and precious thing in the mountain, lifted the covers, kissed his forehead. “I love you,” he whispered, and a ghost of a smile passed over Fíli’s exhausted lips. “He hasn’t slept properly in more than a week,” he said, brushing his fingers along Fíli’s jaw with infinite tenderness.

Kíli straightened. “Now,” he said, his chin raised, his shoulders back, the track of tears still on his face. “What do we need to do?”

“I think,” Gandalf said, “it would be best if Senna slept as well.”

A jolt of shock passed over Kíli’s face, and Gandalf didn’t know which it came from. “You know she’s here?”

“I knew Senna as well as Durin, in two of their lives together. It was a surprise to find her in you, but in a way it makes sense.”

Kíli looked away. “She’s not as difficult as Durin. She’s not as angry. More,” his voice caught a moment, searching, “sad.”

“I would not be comfortable asking what I am of you if I felt you were not fully competent to make the decision without undue influence,” Gandalf answered truthfully. “I cannot imagine you are completely free of her.”

“No.” Kíli turned and looked at Ori. “I’ll stay here until he wakes up. You go get some food and rest.”

Ori’s eyes shifted between the two of them, his stance protective. He was small and young, but there was a fair dose of both his brothers in him from time to time. “You’re sure?”

Kíli reached out, clapped a hand to his shoulder. “I’m sure. This is something Fíli and I have to figure out. Go spend some time with your family, and tell everyone not to disturb us, since Gandalf is here.”

Ori nodded, though reluctantly, and they heard him talking to Gloin outside as he closed the door behind him, passing on Kíli’s message almost word-for-word. 

Kíli sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on Fíli’s ankle as his brother curved gently into the pillow. “All right,” he said, “I’m ready.”

Gandalf knelt again, pressed his hand to Kíli’s forehead.

It was different, this time. Senna was strong and stubborn in her way, but she was not a first-born of Aulë, and her nature had always been gentle. He remembered seeing her with her children, singing songs to them that always held a hint of melancholy.

 _Too many times I lived to see them die,_ she whispered as his power touched her. _Too many times I woke again, to find them long gone. My beautiful children._

She curled into sleep as if it was a release from pain, and not a punishment.

\-----

“I have been to see Saruman,” Gandalf told the young king. There was an ease in the way Kíli sat now, that suited him better than the stiff formality that came from sharing a body with Senna. 

“The White Wizard? The one from the Battle?” Kíli frowned. “Why? Why draw him into dwarf affairs?”

“Because he is the most powerful and wisest of our order. He is our leader.” Gandalf paused.

He could stop there.

He _should_ stop there.

But instead, he looked at Kíli, watching him warily, at Fíli, asleep on the bed; and he thought of Thorin, the kind dwarf driven to obsession and madness at his behest. 

He looked at them, and he felt regret, and he said, “There is another reason as well.”

Kíli’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t demand answers, as he would have back in the Shire. He waited and listened. _He’s grown up_ , Gandalf thought.

“Before we came to Middle Earth,” Gandalf said slowly, though he’d never properly told this story before, “before we became Istari – what you would call Wizards – we were Maiar. Servants of the Valar. We were asked to come here, in this form, and help to protect the world from the dangers of Sauron, servant of Malkor.”

Kíli frowned. “Sauron was defeated in the Last Alliance.”

“Yes, he was temporarily defeated at the end of the Second Age. Durin was there; he led the dwarf armies as Durin IV. But Sauron was not destroyed, merely weakened. He grows now in power, and we have been here for generations, attempting to prepare the mortal races to face him.” He shook his head. “But that isn’t what’s important,” he said before Kíli could interrupt, though Kíli couldn’t truly understand how important it was, to give up his life among the Maiar and live among those who so easily grew old and died. “The reason I went to Saruman specifically is because before we were sent to Arda, his name was Curumo,” the old name felt strange now on his tongue, how odd it would be, to be greeted not as _Gandalf_ or _Tharkûn,_ but as _Olórin._ “He was a Maiar in service to Aulë.”

Kíli’s eyes widened. “Mahal,” he whispered, though the name was never meant to be said in front of others; as secret as their hidden language and proud history. 

Gandalf inclined his head in acknowledgement. “It is Aulë who controls Durin’s returns, not Durin himself. He does so in secret, as the other Valar would not approve the choice; but Saruman knew of it, and told me what he knew when first I met Durin, in the form of Durin V.”

“Then can he . . . can he _talk_ to Ma-to Aulë? Ask him to leave us be?”

“It’s not as simple as that. We are limited in our powers here; in coming to Arda, we ceased to be true Maiar and became something else. But there is…” Gandalf hesitated, then slipped his hand into his robe and pulled out a small vial. Innocuous and innocent, it looked like nothing more than a bit of water. “Saruman believes this may help you.”

Kíli shifted forward. “How?”

“That . . . I cannot tell you, with certainty. Saruman was not clear on the matter, and refused to be so.” Gandalf ground his teeth in frustration. “He said only it would alert Aulë to your plight, if such a thing is possible.”

Kíli’s lips curved into a wry smile. “Very frustrating,” he said, with a sharp bite of his old humor, “not understanding what’s going on.”

Gandalf shot him a look that only made the smile brighten a bit.

He huffed softly, but felt a hint of a smile of his own at the cheek.

“If it does work, and Durin and Senna are banished, there is something else to consider.”

Kíli reached out and gently touched the side of the vial. Where his fingers contacted the glass, a gentle golden glow radiated out across the surface. “What is that?” his voice came out soft, delicate, and Gandalf could see he was fighting the urge to hope. 

“. . . I have never known Durin to inhabit the body of a living dwarf. I would not have thought you lived, when I saw your wounds from the battlefield, and Fíli’s were even more grievous.”

“We did die,” Kíli said softly. “Fíli doesn’t remember, and even when I told him, he didn’t truly understand. But Senna did. Fíli died, there beside me. I saw it happen. He should have gone on to the Halls but-” his voice faltered, deepened, and the love in his eyes and in his fingertips was almost a physical thing. “But he wouldn’t go, when I was wounded. He held on to me. He held on so tightly that when I died,” he closed his eyes, remembering, “when I died he was still there.”

Gandalf took a slow breath. “And so when Durin entered his body, and it began to heal-”

“I don’t remember that part. But I believe Fíli was drawn back to it.” Kíli opened his eyes, and his smile was soft and wondering, his voice proud. “We’re here because Fíli loved me enough not to leave me alone on the battlefield.” 

Gandalf smiled.

He had lived many lifetimes in this body, among mortals. They loved fiercely and deeply, these beings so affected by death. But rarely had he seen anything like this; two souls that grew up tangled together, and would not be parted even by the end of their mortal lives.

“Ah,” he murmured, “the stubbornness of dwarves. Fíli is a true son of Durin, after all.”

Kíli laughed, soft but real, pulling away from the vial and back to the bed, resting his hand again on Fíli’s leg. “What does that have to do with Durin leaving?”

“I do not know,” Gandalf said, his voice slow and careful, “if your bodies will survive without the spirits of Durin and Senna.” He watched as his meaning dawned on Kíli, as Kíli’s fingers tightened around Fíli’s calf protectively. “Your wounds may return, and you may die all over again.”

**XX**

Fíli gave him the crown in their privacy of their rooms.

“No,” Kíli said, pushing his hands away, but he knew his brother was right. 

Fíli didn’t yell at him, didn’t lose his temper. He only watched him, understanding in his voice, even as he said, “Take the crown, Kíli. You have to. This isn’t a matter of choice. Not anymore.”

Kíli was tired, and he ached, and there was blood on Fíli’s sleeve from where he’d bandaged Dwalin’s injuries. They were exhausted. “I can’t be king, Fíli. I was never supposed to be king.”

“He will kill every member of the Company if he must,” Fíli said, his voice certain. “He would have a clean slate; no one would know what happened when the others arrived. They would know only that the great Durin has returned in the wake of tragedy.” He stepped forward, the crown a barrier between them as he looked up into Kíli’s eyes. “You promised me you would do this.”

In Kíli’s mind, Senna shouted.

She cried out, she fought, she argued.

_You cannot take the crown from him! He is born to rule!_

She spoke of Durin, but she might as well have spoken of Fíli. Kíli had known since they were children that his kind, thoughtful brother would be king one day. He had sworn to stay at Fíli’s side.

He had never dreamed of standing in Fíli’s place.

“Fight her,” Fíli said, “and help me fight him.”

Kíli lowered his head, pressed his forehead to Fíli’s, drank in his breaths.

“Take the crown, Kíli,” Fíli whispered, and his hands were shaking, and his eyes were pained, and Kíli knew that Senna’s battle inside him

_You have no right! No one has the right! I will not allow it!_

was nothing next to whatever roared in Fíli’s mind, as Durin thrashed against the loss of his crown.

He took it.

Fíli’s crown, with its delicate braiding.

He took it, and stepped away.


	21. Chapter 21

**Twenty-One**

Fíli awoke to the stroking of fingers through his hair and the steady beat of a heart under his ear.

He woke slowly, not jerking awake from a memory-turned-nightmare, not startled to wakefulness by a voice in his head trying to move his body. There was only warmth, and that sensation of a hand moving through his hair, gently working out tangles, scratching at the scalp.

“Kíli,” he murmured, because he knew the scent and warmth of his brother, had always known it.

“Hey.” There was relief in that voice, and humor, and Fíli stretched a bit under the hand on his chest, over his heart. “Ready to wake up?”

“Mmmm. Not really. But I will.”

Fíli opened his eyes.

It was so quiet in the room.

So quiet in his head.

He could hear himself breathe, could hear Kíli breathe, could feel the beating of Kili's heart.

It was the most beautiful sound in the world.

His hand was tangled in the curls on Kíli’s chest, and he dug his nails in just enough to make Kíli bark a little “Hey, watch it!”

He smirked and shifted, pressed a kiss there, the hair rough-silk against his lips. Another to his shoulder and then there were Kíli’s lips, and of course he had to kiss them as well, light and loving.

“What happened?” he asked as he pushed to sit up. Kíli moved with him, though not without a little huff of disappointment.

“Gandalf put Durin and Senna to sleep for a while. So we could talk.”

Kíli was beautiful. His hair was tangled around his cheeks and ears, but he was rested, his brows drawn together in concern but his eyes bright. Fíli reached out and touched him, cupped the bristled jaw in his palm and traced the sharp line with his thumb. Nothing in his mind told him to stop, nothing told him to pull away.

So strange, knowing he was in love, and feeling so peaceful about it.

“How long?”

Their voices were hushed. Kíli’s hand settled on top of Fíli’s, squeezing. His eyes closed a moment as he turned his head into it. “Maybe a couple of days.”

“To talk about?”

“What we do next. He has . . . an option.” Kíli’s eyes opened again. “But it can wait.” He flashed a little grin, dim but his, crinkling at the edges. “You need a bath first. You smell horrible.”

He deserved the pillow he got to the face, but also the kiss afterward, because he laughed, and it had been so long since Fíli had heard his brother laugh.

\-----

Kíli refused to tell him anything until they were cleaned up and Fíli had food in his belly.

They shared the bath, hot water and fresh soap Dori and Nori had made. As soon as they were settled (the tub could fit five dwarves, much less two), Kíli picked up the soft cloth set on the ledge and started to slide the suds over Fíli’s shoulders. When Fíli argued he could do it himself, Kíli only said, “Let me take care of you. You always take care of me. Even when I was being a terrible, moody brat in Lake-town, you never left my side.” He traced the cloth across Fíli’s collarbone. “It’s my turn.”

“I like to take care of you,” Fíli confessed, but he rested his hands on Kíli’s knees and let him do as he wanted. It felt wonderful, strong hands and soft cloth, slick hot water. Kili hummed a bit as he worked, scrubbing here and there, chuckling under his breath as thick golden curls flattened and crinkled with the motions.

Kíli brushed a kiss to the tip of Fíli’s nose, shocking Fíli’s eyes open. Kíli’s warm grin was only an inch away. “Your nose is for kissing, in case you didn’t know. It was the first bit of you I wanted to kiss.” A wink, or Kíli’s attempt at one, then, “Turn around, let me wash your hair.”

Kíli took his time, stroking his fingers through, massaging around Fíli’s ears, little tugs that felt strangely soothing and a little arousing all at once. They were silent, save the gentle splashes of the water, and Kíli’s soft orders to, “Close your eyes," and then, "Lean back, I’ll rinse it out.”

Fíli closed his eyes and let Kíli do as he pleased. He leaned into Kíli’s hands, followed his lead as Kíli laid him back in the water to float. Those clever fingers worked through every inch, scrubbing the sweat and suds away with careful attention to every strand.

Fíli opened his eyes to see Kíli pressing a kiss to the end of one long, wet lock of hair, his eyes half-shut as he breathed Fíli in. When Kíli caught Fíli’s gaze, he smiled.

For a moment, the world was peaceful.

They sat on the edge of the tub and Kíli worked at his hair, gently (sometimes a little forcefully) taking it from dripping to damp. “Come on then,” he said, folding the towel away with something like regret, “Dinner should be here soon, and I doubt whoever brings it wants to see us in nothing but our skin.”

Fíli felt a little grin tug at his lips, the first in far too long, and he pinched Kíli’s side until his brother gave a little yelp. “I can’t imagine why not. I certainly enjoy looking at you, and any dwarf in his right might would love looking at me.” Kíli rolled his eyes, and warmth spread through Fíli's chest.

He remembered a time when being content, or even happy, was his usual state of mind, and not something rare and precious, to be treasured.

Dinner was delivered by Balin, who murmured a gentle hello and a “You’re looking better, Fíli,” which caused Kíli to cover a little laugh and Fíli to flash a dimple, but at least they were dressed from the waist down.

They ate on the sofa in the living area, curled together, and only when Fíli was picking at the last bits, complaining about being too full, would Kíli describe the news Gandalf had brought them.

Fíli glared into the fire, angry and disappointed. They'd waited so long, fought so hard, for nothing more than a _chance_ , a _possibility_. “He doesn’t even know what it’ll do?” he spat, and his voice didn’t sound like his own but this time, this time it was.

Kíli bit his lip. “He doesn’t. And there’s a chance it could – it could reopen our wounds.” Fíli’s head jerked toward him. “If Mahal hears our call, and Durin and Senna leave,” his voice caught but he didn’t look away, “we could die from our injuries.”

Fíli shook his head slowly. After all this, to see Kíli die-

“I thought about it, while you were sleeping!” his brother blurted, reaching out and taking his hand. “There have to be alternatives! We could – I was thinking – it’s the mountain that Durin’s so possessive of. We could leave. The two of us. Take off, back to Ered Luin or even spend some time in the Shire, or just travel-”

“Kíli-”

“Or we could talk to the elves properly, I know you didn’t want to do that, and Gandalf said it wouldn’t really help, but, we didn’t try-”

“Kíli.”

“Or we could just…we could just stay here, and let Mother run the mountain, and give it some more time. She could handle the major decisions, and we could take care of each other. She’ll be here in only a few months-”

“Kíli.” Fíli tugged hard on the hands in his, cutting his brother off as suddenly as he’d begun. Kili’s eyes flickered to him and away, his palms clammy.

He knew, before Fíli spoke.

“There are no other choices, Kíli,” Fíli’s voice was kind, but immovable. “I cannot survive another month. I don’t believe I could survive a week. I’d die of exhaustion, and he’d have all he wanted. He doesn’t need sleep, like I do, not right now.” He leaned forward, pressed their foreheads together. “I don’t have a choice, Kíli. I have to take this chance. But you do.”

He felt Kíli’s breaths against his lips, fast, unhappy little puffs of air. “No. No, we go together.”

“Stop and think-” Fíli tried to pull away, but long fingers, curling around his neck, stopped him.

“I don’t have to. It’s us, Fíli. Both of us. We’ll do this together.” Their eyes met, too close to focus, but they didn’t need that. Every feature was written on the other’s heart. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

The last few months had been an endless nightmare of exhaustion and uncertainty and self-loathing.

But this – loving Kíli.

Loving Kíli was easy, and calm, and warm, and perfect.

**XI**

Kíli would have forged ahead, gotten dressed and marched outside and ordered Gandalf to just give them the vial and let them put an end to all this. It was that or fall apart, it was that or scream and fight the air, that they should be brought to this terrifying moment.

But Fíli stopped him.

“Gandalf said a couple of days?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then we’ll take them.” Fíli caught his shoulders, his selfless Fíli, taught from birth to put others before himself, with the temperament to do so anyway. “I want them. I want a proper night with you, before we face whatever comes next.”

Fíli was breathtaking when he was selfish, damp hair in his eyes, clinging to his neck, to his bare shoulders.

“You still look so tired,” Kíli said, because there were circles under his brother’s eyes, and his hands trembled (just slightly, just enough, because Fíli was always cleverness and strength and steady).

But Fíli smiled at him, a real smile, deepening the shadows as he cupped Kíli’s face in his hands (warm, warm, finally warm). “I want this,” he whispered, and his voice was earnest, his voice was childhood and laughter and teasing and training and everything that it should be and nothing, nothing it shouldn’t be. “I want you. You make me sane, Kíli. You make me know who I am.”

That beloved face fractured with tears as Kíli reached out, as he wrapped his hands around his brother’s wrists. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t. Whatever happens next, we’ll go together.” A kiss to his forehead, to his temple. “But right now we’re here, Kíli. We’re here, and there is nothing in my life I have ever wanted more than you.”

Dwarves weren’t ashamed of tears in battle with your loved ones scattered over a field of death. They were seen as stoic race, but they mourned freely, fought wildly, wept when it was time.

This was the greatest battle of their lives, and Kíli wept for the horror of it.

“Kíli-” Tears in Fíli’s eyes as well, overflowing, tracing the beloved curves of his face.

But no, it was Kíli’s turn this time.

He leaned down and brushed his lips across his older brother’s temple.

Kíli’s lips moved over Fíli’s face, gentle brushes, gathered the tears and sipped them away. “I love you,” he said, with the memory of Fíli’s confession weeks before, and there was joy in his voice, and wonder, and everything they should have had from that first delicate kiss. “I loved you before Durin and Senna.” Fíli smiled, and started pulling him to the bed, gentle but so, so strong. So steady. “I loved you in madness, and I love you now, when it’s you and me and uncertainty,” Kíli followed, followed as his brother lay among the sheets and pillows, not because he had to obey but because his heart guided him. He needed Fíli to know. Needed him to understand. Needed to put it into words, as Fíli had.

Fili pulled Kíli atop him and said, “Tomorrow we could be dead, or we could be kings, but either way, Kíli,” Kíli’s name was a prayer and Kíli whispered Fíli’s back, felt Fíli under him, the spread of Fíli’s thighs as his brother brought him closer, “it will be with you.”

Time stretched, but it was not enough. Not enough to see the flickering firelight on Fíli’s skin, to see Fíli smile at him, to know that those were Fíli’s fingers stroking over his skin. Fíli spoke to him, soft assurances, over and over again, “I love you, I love you, I’m so proud of you, I’m in awe of you,” and Kíli shivered and kissed him again, tried to say the words back but they tangled and just became Fíli's name, in a dozen variations, meaning a dozen different things, all coming back to _I love you._

He was not as strong as Fíli, no matter what Fíli said. His brother who was born to be king.

No.

No, not here, with his mouth on Fíli’s, and Fíli’s hands on his hips, urging him over, and then Fíli kissing down his chest and raking nails along his ribs.

His brother who was born to be his.

He was on his back and Fíli rose over him, a vision of gentle smiles and honeyed hair (not gold, no, nothing so cold), of warmth and swollen lips and a hint of laughter in the corners of his eyes. He leaned down, and for a moment they were trapped together in the sweep of his hair. “With me,” he said again, and his hips shifted and Kíli knew what he meant.

He waited, breathless for a moment, for a voice in his heart to say _You cannot take such a thing from a king_ , but there was none. There was only embarrassed warmth, a flush of desire, and understanding, understanding, why it had to be that way this last time. “Oil,” he whispered, because he wouldn’t have it hurt.

Fíli straightened, and twisted as he reached for the oil on the side table. Kíli reached out and touched – the sturdy hips, the golden hair, the horrible splash of white and red skin that could mean life or could mean death-

Time.

Time.

There would never be enough time.

Kíli shivered, squeezed his eyes shut, tried to memorize this moment.

He dreamed so much. Dreams that weren’t his. Time that was stolen from him.

“Open your eyes, Kíli.”

Kíli obeyed, because he wanted to.

Fíli smiled at him, traced fingertips along his temple, traced his jaw. “Keep them open. I’m here.”

Kíli didn’t close his eyes again.

He watched. Watched the play of firelight, watched the way Fíli’s muscles moved under the skin, watched the delicate shifts in his expression as he moved forward, as he rocked against Kíli’s questing fingers, as he leaned in and kissed him or pulled away.

He watched as Fíli’s body took him in, watched the shift of Fíli’s thighs and the peace in Fíli’s eyes as Kíli lifted his hips and Fíli pressed down to take him deeper. Watched and worried, wanting this to be only good for Fíli, only perfect.

He had changed, in these weeks and months, from the self-centered boy of Lake-town, the reckless child of the Mirkwood. He had become an adult, worthy to love a king.

“With me,” Fíli said, and he leaned down to kiss him, slow press of lips and a tangle of tongues, a moan passing from his mouth to Kíli’s as it shifted Kíli deep inside.

“Yes,” Kili whispered, that they could be one being for this handful of stolen moments.

 

 

Time.

Time and Fíli’s eyes, time and Fíli’s breath, time and Fíli’s body, beautiful and hard and perfect. Time and Fíli in his hands, thick and warm and responding to his touch, the stroke of his fingers.

Time and Fíli moaning against his tongue, shuddering, whispering, “No,” because he was close and it wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough time, couldn’t end-

Kíli came at the feel of warmth and lust and love on his stomach, at the clench of Fíli’s body, at the sudden wildness in Fíli’s eyes, all that peace wiped out as Fíli arched back and moved on top of him and all around him.

He shuddered and cried out and tried to stop, tried to stop, because there wasn’t _time_ -

He returned to himself on the wave of Fíli’s voice and the feel of Fíli’s hands in his hair. “I’m here, I’m here, Kíli. Kíli, we’re here. We’re together.” He rolled over, tucked Kíli close, kissed him. “We’re here. We’re together. We’ll stay together.”

Kíli reached out, wrapped his arms around Fíli. “Don’t fall asleep,” he said, though he was tired, so tired, but he wanted-

“No. I won’t fall asleep.” A nuzzle and a smile, a real smile, a flash of joy in Kíli’s chest. “You too.”

“Me too,” Kíli agreed, and tilted his head for another kiss.

Kíli waited for the dawn in his brother’s arms.

\------

“Let me do yours too.”

Kíli rolled his eyes as he lowered his hands from the fresh braids in his brother’s hair. It had been a task, smoothing out the waves, but Fíli was as handsome as ever now. They would see Gandalf in only minutes, and the familiarity of putting in his brother's braids had helped to calm the sickness roiling in Kíli's stomach. Fíli had allowed it with his usual good humor. “It won’t do any good, and it doesn’t matter-”

“It matters.” Fíli’s voice was firm. His king voice, the one he’d practiced on Kíli when they were in their thirties. He reached out and gathered a lock of hair in his fingers. “I will have you look like the king you are.”

Kíli scowled, that something twisting again in his belly, but Fíli met it with a smile. “I’m not the king! You are! I’ve known since we were children – I’ve always- I _never_ wanted to take that from you! I’ve always known, even when we could barely stand to be in the same room, that you’re meant to be-”

“King,” Fíli finished for him. His eyes were calm and his voice gentle; he reached up and slid his hands behind Kíli’s neck, tugging him down, forcing Kíli to meet his gaze. “I am king, Kíli. I was raised practically from birth for it. I remember the day of my coronation as Thorin’s heir, and all the lessons, and the constant reminders that I was born for one purpose.”

“Which is why-”

“Shh.” Fingers brushed the nape of Kíli’s neck. “Let me finish.” Kíli made a soft noise of disagreement, but he didn’t interrupt again.

“I am going to be king, but they had one thing wrong. I wasn’t meant to be king alone. And you weren’t meant to be my heir.” He smiled, a curve of his lips, but the shadows were not so dark now under his eyes. He lowered his hands, catching Kíli’s and pulling them around his own waist. “We’re meant to be king together, Kíli.” A little lift on his toes, and Fíli kissed him. “Everything together. No matter what happens.”

His fingers worked fast, the movements easy and familiar, though Kíli’s hair was more slippery and less well-behaved than Fíli’s own. Two braids by his ears, and then he threaded on two beads from their grandfather’s collection: the beads of a king. The same Fíli now wore.

Kíli ran his fingers over the left as Fíli worked on the right.

He thought of Thorin, entombed alone without his family, with no brother or Consort, and realized-

He would never share that fate.

Even if his wounds reopened, even if he died again, as they should have on the battlefield, he would not lie alone. He would curl together with his brother, given to the stone as a King of Erebor.

“Together,” he whispered, and Fíli gave him a warm smile that was everything he could want.

\----

Gandalf gave them the vial.

It shimmered in Kíli’s hands, shining gold against his fingertips.

 

 

“I should have brought more,” the wizard apologized. He looked strange in their quarters, cleaned up and prepared for his arrival, too-large and unwieldy. But the vial was small even in Kíli’s hands, and warm where the wizard had held it against his skin. “But I believe there will be enough, if you’re careful.”

Fíli looked up at it, murmured, “It’s beautiful, in its way.”

 _And innocent_ , Kíli thought, to hold their lives in its depths.

_We could die._

A stirring at the back of his mind; not words, more a sensation, a dream.

_There are things worse than death with the one you love._

Senna was waking.

Fíli looked at him, held out a hand.

Kíli placed the vial in it.

They had discussed this. Fíli had insisted.

“I’ll be first,” he said, “and if anything happens, you can-”

Kíli had kissed the words away, but couldn’t dissuade him.

Kíli’s heart pounded.

Fíli’s fingers stroked his wrist.

Kíli thought of Fíli, of waking up in Fíli’s arms.

He wanted a lifetime of that.

They _deserved_ a lifetime-

Fíli’s voice, certain and calm, “Kíli.” And when he had Kíli’s full attention: “I love you.”

Kíli’s smile was sure to be foolish, but he didn’t mind. He could be foolish. He was in love.

Fíli tilted his head, and Kíli fought the urge – almost gave into it, harder than any moment with Senna – to grab the thing and smash it.

But he didn’t, and then the soft sound of Fíli’s throat moving, and then Fíli’s fingers, wrapping his around it. “You still have a choice,” he said, “you could-”

Kíli drank. He didn’t taste it, not until he grabbed Fíli, pressed their mouths together, and the sensation of water and gold evaporated on their tongues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linane: You can find the fullsize links to the pictures above [HERE](http://linane-art.tumblr.com/post/112942757511/with-me-fullsize-he-watched-as-filis-body) and [ HERE](http://linane-art.tumblr.com/post/104600813101/linane-art-dragonsquill-and-delorita-present-our).


	22. Chapter 22

**Twenty-two**

Darkness.

A cave.

Arching stone, streaks of gray and gold.

Sparking gems, precious stones, and a delicate white-silver streak of 

“Mithril,” breathed but not breathed, because there was no breath here.

Moments before, they were in each other’s arms, Fíli’s hand curled around his brother’s neck, thumb on the steady comfort of Kíli’s pulse. But now Fíli could not hear the beating of Kíli’s heart. He couldn’t feel it.

He didn’t think they existed, as such.

A sensation of warmth, of crisp wind, the scent of wood smoke.

Home, in any form.

Fíli closed his eyes, but nothing changed, and he thought

_I do not have eyes_

A voice, feminine and almost musical:

“Are these the Halls, finally open to us?”

“Senna!” Kíli’s voice, but not Kíli – Fíli couldn’t see him, and panic flickered dully as he tried to turn, tried to see-

“In the halls I would see you.”

This voice.

Oh.

This voice.

If Fíli could have breathed he would have gasped, given himself away. This was the voice that had echoed in his mind so long, no longer dulled but deep and rich and ancient.

_Durin._

“I know you’re here, boy. It was your choice to try and drive me out with the help of that Wizard.”

“He’s not a boy!” Furious and defensive. “He’s the king of Erebor!”

A laugh. There was actual humor in it, and it was warm; not the laugh in Fíli’s mind, harsh and angry. “Whatever his role may be, he is a boy to me, and I would have him speak for himself.”

A beat.

Fíli’s voice, careful and calm, a hard-earned skill, “You left me no choice.”

“Ah,” something like regret. “Lack of choice is something I know only too well.”

Between them hung memories of half a dozen lives.

Between them hung death and blood and grief.

“Then why wouldn’t you – why did you fight me so much?” The calm broke, fractured, reshaped. “Why did you make me suffer every minute?”

“Do you dream I could curl up and die now? Waste away in the back of your mind? To give up now would be to deny the worth of everything I have done. I am the Father of the Line of Durin. This is all I know, and all I am.” 

Shimmering, a shift in the air, and then _he_ was there-

Durin.

Tall, broad shouldered, thick black hair streaked with gray, blue eyes. He didn’t have the fine features characteristic of Thorin, of Fíli and Kíli; his were broad and handsome, worn with time and worry. 

On his brow, a crown of mithril, a crown of stars.

They faced each other across a cave that wasn’t.

“You’ve seen my memories, boy.” Durin’s eyes were darker than Fíli’s, more like Thorin’s. Durin-blue, people had called it when Fíli was a child, tsked that Kíli’s eyes came from their father. “It was no plan of mine, to be refused passage into the Halls of our Father, forced instead to live again and again, only in times of pain.”

His mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile, something that was cruel, and Fíli tried to stop it – he knew that smile, though he’d never seen it, knew the taste of it – but it was too late-

\-----

_The final life was the worst._

_It happened so fast-_

_Killed, ripped apart by the Balrog, swept into sweet oblivion-_

_Crashing back, lost and confused, and the body so familiar-_

_My son’s body. My heir. My child, Nain._

_My son’s soul, fracturing before me._

_The day he was born, Senna’s bright eyes, his mouth at her breast, dark hair curling around his ears._

_Senna will never forgive me._

_Crying out, reaching out, not even bothering to fight back-_

_Died so quickly in Nain’s body that none knew he had ever carried the soul of Durin._

\----

“Stop!” Kíli’s voice, low and rough and pained, but another as well-

Senna, her delicate features, narrow nose and face, so like Kíli, her voice tangling with his. 

Fíli remembered loving her. He remembered not knowing how to love. He remembered her surrounded by ravens. He remembered her holding their children, singing them to sleep.

He remembered the terror of the next life without her.

He remembered the horror of waking and learning she was there.

No. Durin remembered. Fíli only loved once, always. Fíli loved Kíli.

“Talk, my love.” Frozen, they were all frozen, here-and-yet-not. “Do not overwhelm them with memories again.”

Durin looked away. 

He knew she had seen.

Tears tracked her thin cheeks and disappeared into the rich beauty of her beard.

“Kíli,” Fíli called, and finally, finally – amber eyes and messy hair, brows drawn fiercely together, just beside him, but too far away to touch.

“I’m here.” A flash of a brave grin, though his brows didn’t move. “Wherever here is.”

“It’s nowhere,” Fíli said slowly. “It’s a dream.”

He knew dreams, had spent weeks tangled in them, fighting them. Dreams and memories.

“Why would Gandalf give us something to take us nowhere?”

Soft, that voice like a lullaby, “Where else would our Maker be?”

A breath.

Pressure.

And then a voice that soaked into his skin, rumbled through his bones, like the voice of his parents, but more.

A voice which loved him from before he was born.

**I am far from you, my children.**

**I wait yet in the land of Aman, unable to return to your shores.**

**Only the Istari walk among you now, and my lesser-brother and companion Curumo opens your minds to this place.**

Fíli shivered, and he reached out-

Could move now, could feel, his hand sliding into Kíli’s, his body vibrating.

Against his thumb, the fluttering beat of Kíli’s heart.

“Mahal,” they breathed, a shared breath, and where there had been nothing there was now warmth and the sound of crackling fire in the cave.

Mahal, the Maker of their people, sole of the Valar who loved and cherished the race of Dwarves.  
Fíli had never felt more protected and loved than in this moment.

But it was not so for all-

Durin’s voice burst forth, a low growl, a cry for understanding, fury that tore through peace and left fear and misery in its wake. 

“Why?!” he demanded, and he moved as well, stepped forward, screamed into the endless cavern. “Why have you done this to me?! I woke alone and my brothers with their wives! I die again and again while others go to their reward! I have served you long and well, and yet you torment me!”

Kili winced and pressed against Fíli’s side, as Senna reached out and rested her fingertips against Durin’s back.

She did not try to stop him. 

In her eyes, there was only betrayal, and the memory of her children, held to her breast only to die and leave her alone centuries later.

**You are the child of my hand.**

**The first.**

**The strongest.**

**You are my arm, to defend your descendants from that which would destroy them.**

“That is your duty, not mine!”

A shimmer, as of heat from the forge fire, and the voice of their Maker took shape.

He was beautiful.

Fíli would never find words to describe Mahal, though he would try. He took the form of a Dwarf, but of such exquisite perfection that it almost hurt to look upon him. His beard and hair were gold and silver, his eyes jade, his skin copper, as if he was pieced together from the depths of the earth he helped to create. 

**I am bound by my brethren to Valinor.**

The perfect Dwarf’s lips did not move, and there was no kindness in his eyes. There was nothing in his face at all – a living stature that neither breathed nor bled. 

**And so I chose you, the first and greatest of my creations, to tarry where I could not.**

Durin roared.

It was the sound of an enraged animal, mindless with fury, a wild boar in the forest.

An axe and shield appeared in his hands, as if at a thought, and Durin surged forward, his eyes half-mad.

Fíli gave a small cry, and then there were swords – twin swords, the ones Thorin had disapproved of, as they meant no shield, until he made the blades themselves his guard. 

He moved on instinct, threw himself forward, mourned the loss of Kíli’s warmth even as he flung himself between the Maker and the Father of his people.

The crash of metal on metal split the serene calm of the air, and the cave echoed with a cacophony of sound as of a great war. 

“Get out of my way, boy,” Durin snarled.

“I can’t,” Fíli told him. He heard the sound of light feet, saw his brother out of his eye – bow in hand, sighting along it, the deadly point pointed at Durin’s neck. “You couldn’t kill him, even if you wanted to. You’ll only destroy yourself.”

“Better destroyed than a _thing_ to be used by the Valar!”

**There was a time you loved me.**

**There was a time we spoke in your dreams.**

**There was a time you were wise, and would have welcomed my council.**

**And so you were chosen, son of my heart, the first and greatest of the Dwarf Fathers.**

Durin snarled and spun, trying to get around Fíli, but Fíli moved with him, blocked him, the muscles in his arms screaming at the force the much larger dwarf put behind his blows. 

“Stand down!” Kíli yelled and Fíli ordered, “Do not shoot him!”

“I can’t promise that,” Kíli growled, and Fíli didn’t ask him to. He focused instead of Durin, on how light the big dwarf was on his feet, how fast his blows fell.

“He’s not really here, Durin! Look!” Fíli motioned to the image of Mahal, ached with the beauty of it. “It’s only a statue-”

“And I shall cleave its head from its shoulders!”

A blow fell under Fíli’s arm, the edge of Durin’s shield striking against the new skin along his ribs, and he stumbled back.

Insanity.

Insanity to find himself here, in a dream, battling and feeling pain. 

The fight was a thing of desperation. Durin’s eyes were cold and his movements almost mechanical, instinctive, too many wars in too many bodies. Fíli was a good fighter – great, some had said, for his age – but eighty-two years held no chance against thousands. 

He didn’t fall, but nor did he do more than circle and retreat, defending himself in the crack of metal and laboring breaths.

“Senna.” Kíli followed them, bow drawn, but never let fly – he knew every move Fíli made, followed them with sharp eyes, watched him go down but leap up, watching him look for any advantage. He would not shoot unless Fíli was truly in danger. “Stop him.”

A pause.

For a moment, Durin froze, his head turned.

Fíli stood, breathing carefully controlled, swords up, sliding his feet to stay between Durin and the image of their Maker. 

“I will not.”

Senna raised her eyes. They were green and flecked with gold, and those sharp features so like Kíli’s. “I will not stop you, my love.” She raised her hands, and Fíli heard the fluttering of wings. “If this will release us, I will not stop you.”

Durin gave a wild laugh, more a series of mirthless barks, and he turned on Fíli with a final wild cry, knocked his right sword away, blocked the left with his shield, brought his axe to bear-

Kíli released his arrow.

The familiar whistle of it in the air gave Fíli a moment of comfort, even as he realized it would come too late, even as the axe flew toward his neck.

_I will die_ , he thought, _and Durin will have my body. And it’s not even what he wants._

Time froze.

The arrow quivered in the air, and Durin’s desperate eyes bore into his, but neither moved.

**I have been too long removed from the world.**

**I did not know he had become so.**

Fíli didn’t look at the statue, he watched Durin.

He felt pity.

“Of course he did. Mortal beings aren’t meant to be immortal. Especially by being shoved into other lives.”

**I have never been mortal.**

**I know only that you need care and protection.**

**Care which I cannot provide as I would wish, at the behest of those who would leave mortals to their lives, or their doom.**

Kíli moved forward, to stand at Fíli’s side. “Maybe it’s time you let us take care of ourselves.” His voice was purely Kíli, on the edge of insubordinate, a sharp bite to the words.

There was no laugh, and yet Fíli felt the sensation of one, a chuckle that warmed his heart with silent good will.

**No father would abandon his children so, had he power not to.**

“Children grow up,” Fíli said, and he smiled at his brother, proud and tall and kind beside him. “They get stronger.”

**And yet still they need guidance.**

Regret, now, in Fíli’s stomach, and Kíli leaned against him in search of comfort against it.

**I had hoped once, with time, that my brethren would embrace my children.**

**But it was not to be.**

**Always shall you be frowned upon by those preferred of Illuvatar, though he granted you life.**

**Always shall the other Valar turn their faces aside from your danger, for their favored children.**

**And so, I will not let my children go unaided.**

Fíli looked at Kíli.

It was only a glance, their eyes meeting, but it was enough, when the heart that beat now in Fíli’s chest, that echoed in his ears, so clearly belonged to his brother.

Kíli nodded.

“Then allow us,” Fíli said, lifting his head and looking into the dark, “to take his place.”

**You are too young.**

“We have-”

Fíli stopped. 

He pressed a hand to his chest, where he knew the ugly scar splashed over his ribs, and he thought of Gandalf’s warning.

“If you grant us,” he said slowly, “the rest of this life, we will have more than a century to learn.”

Understanding.

**You are not strong enough.**

“We are.” Fíli stepped closer, felt the warmth of Kíli’s arm against his own. “Together, we are.”

Silence.

Consideration.

Kíli’s fingers threaded nervously with his own.

**You have fought Durin these many weeks.**

**That is no mean feat, for one of your years and experience.**

**It was not my intention that you do so.**

**Yet your love and stubborn will to protect kept your spirit tied to your body, when you should have abandoned it.**

Beside him, Kíli shivered. But his look was one of pride and thanks.

**You have strength of will.**

**Do you have strength of arm?**

“I am . . . well-trained.”

**So I have seen.**

A beat.

**Battle Durin.**

**Defeat him.**

**And I will allow you to take his place.**

“And if we lose?”

**I will heal Durin as well I can, and allow him to lead our people.**

**There are dark times ahead.**

**I cannot leave them without guidance.**

**One of the most powerful Maiar will rise, and Erebor must stand a bastion against it.**

Kíli’s voice, smaller than usual:

“Will we go to the Halls? Or be destroyed?”

**That I do not determine.**

Fíli turned, rested his hand on his brother’s neck to pull him down until their foreheads touched.

“There is no choice,” he whispered, and he meant the words for the two of them, though he knew Mahal would hear. He sensed Mahal in every jewel, in every stone of the cave that surrounded them. “We can’t let him become king. He’s too harsh and too unpredictable. Too many lives, or the dragon sickness, or the ring I kept dreaming of – something made him change. I swore to protect our people, and I will. Even if I die try-”

“We,” Kíli argued, his brows dark and his face set.

“Kíli-”

“Together, Fíli.” A light kiss, a breath. “With me.”

“Two against one?” 

Kíli grinned, a little wild at the edges. “More like two against six. I’ve got no problem with it.”

Fíli smiled back, his old, sly smile, strange on his lips after so long. “All right then.” He turned, set his feet, swords at the ready. “For Erebor.”

“For my king,” Kíli responded.

And Durin moved.

**XII**

Durin snarled and threw himself at them. Fíli and Kíli split, spun, came back together behind him. The bow in Kíli’s hands became his longsword, and as Fíli roared his war cry Kíli went dark and still.

Durin’s axe crashed into Fíli’s crossed swords, and Fíli’s boots slid across the stone. 

But Fíli didn’t fight alone. He never fought alone.

His brother twisted, grabbed his waist, swung him around and lashed out to slam his own sword against Durin’s shield in an attempt to knock him off-balance.

It left Kíli open, just for a second, and Fíli moved on instinct, threw himself into that space, because what would happen if he didn’t, what would happen to Kíli’s soul, everything that Kíli was-

Kíli might not know that he was trained to make up for Fíli’s deficiencies, but Fíli had known, from the day Kíli was born, that Thorin had it all backwards. Kíli wasn’t meant to protect Fíli; Fíli existed to keep his brother safe. 

Fear twisted in Fíli’s mind, but he shoved it away. Fear was a distraction that could end Kíli’s life.

“Fíli!” 

A grunt as Fíli went down on one leg, but he braced himself, tapped the floor, felt the boot on his shoulder as Kíli launched over him and struck down with the full force of his weight on Durin’s shield.

Kíli landed and rolled neatly away.

They circled, the two young kings, and their deathless ancestor.

Fíli’s eyes flickered from Durin’s axe to his brother’s side.

Kíli.

_Durin does not truly know how Kíli fights._

_He will consider me the greater threat._

This battle, Fíli realized, hinged not on him. 

It hinged on Kíli.

In a breath, Kíli’s eyes met his.

His lips moved, his eyes bore into Fíli’s.

“Trust me,” he said, and so Fíli knew Kíli understood as well.

Fíli’s brother, a little wild, a little unreliable, terribly unpredictable.

Fíli’s brother, whom he made king.

Fíli nodded.

He couldn’t protect Kíli now.

He had to trust Kíli to protect himself, to protect them both.

Durin snarled and Fíli roared and Kíli moved silent as a snake. 

When Durin struck for Kíli, Fíli took advantage, stabbed at Durin’s side, lifted a foot and planted it in Durin’s thigh, pushing off with a massive kick that sent Fíli flying and Durin to the ground.

When Durin turned on Fíli, Kíli rushed and slid between them, sword slicing at the armored boots, sending laces flying.

_With me._

Distract Durin, hold his focus, fight as Durin anticipated, let Kíli add the unexpected.

_Together._

Fíli and Kíli fought as one for the future of their people.

Senna stood to the side and watched, silent and pale, save the calls of ravens, the fluttering of wings.

“Help me!” Durin roared.

She lifted her chin, and there was pride there. “I am,” she said. “I’m helping us both.”

Durin stumbled.

Fíli was light – he used it, shoved from Kíli’s shoulders, feet hitting the wall, twisting in the air and bringing down his swords with a snarl that Durin barely blocked.

Fíli refused to back down.

He pressed forward, twin swords singing through the air.

He left himself open, he knew he did, but he knew too that Kíli was watching.

After a lifetime of Fíli watching him, of Fíli protecting him, of Fíli covering his back when Kíli moved without thinking-

This time, Kíli would see them safe.

The final moment came suddenly, and without thought. Fíli lowered his arm too slowly and Durin’s axe sliced deep into Fíli’s shoulder – a splash of blood, blinding pain. But he didn’t falter, he reached out on instinct, knowing Kíli would be there, sensing it from years under Thorin’s eyes, under Dwalin’s.

Kíli grabbed his hand and waist and _threw_ him at Durin as he had at the spiders.

And Fíli grabbed for Durin, for his neck, locked his arms and twisted backwards, using his weight and momentum to drag the larger dwarf to the ground.

The impact of Durin’s greater weight knocked the breath out of him, but he held on, refused to weaken even as blackness threatened at the edge of his vision. Soon, soon-

“Yield.”

Kíli’s voice.

Kíli’s blade, at Durin’s eyes.

Durin choked out an answer, spat.

And then-

“Yield, my love. The time has come.”

That voice, like a raven in the sunlight.

The rustling of her skirts, and Fíli saw her feet and then her face as Senna knelt beside them.

There was nothing subservient in her eyes now.

“You have been bested, my king.” She reached out, touched the rough face. “We are free.”

In Fíli’s arm, the great Durin went limp.

“You may let him go now,” Senna said, and Fíli did, gasping for air, feeling Kíli’s hands grabbing for him and pulling him free. 

Senna’s hands gathered Durin’s in her own. “You did not know defeat until the Balrog.” She kissed his forehead. “You have fought long and hard, but this must be your second taste of it.”

Fíli had thought her plain, the first time he saw her in Durin’s dreams.

Now he found her radiant.

But not so much as the dwarf looking worriedly into his eyes, saying his name over and over like a prayer that must be answered.

“Kíli,” he said, deep breaths bringing his voice back, “I’m fine.”

Kíli glared at him. “You weren’t supposed to squash yourself!” he snarled, and yes, there was the temperamental holder of his heart.

**You have persevered.**

A blink.

They were standing, the weapons were gone, armor melted to soft cloth. Fíli’s breath flowed freely, and Kíli’s arms were around him.

**You will keep my children safe.**

Fíli turned his head.

Durin stood beside Senna. He looked, in that moment, young, and handsome, and strong.

The Durin who gazed into the water, and saw a crown of stars.

A Durin free of madness.

“What of Durin and Senna?”

**It is my hope that they will to the Halls.**

“. . . But you don’t know?” Kíli asked.

**It is not mine to guarantee, but I believe it most likely.**

Senna smiled, and the sun rose in her eyes. “It is still hope. I have not felt hope in a very long time.” 

“You’ll see your children again,” Kíli said, and she inclined her head as regally as any king. 

**They will rest. And they will heal.**

**There is healing in the Halls of Mandos.**

“And us?”

**Time will tell if I will have need of you again.**

**For now, live your lives.**

Kíli’s hand in his.

_Our life,_ Fíli thought, because where there was one there would always be the other.

**Protect your people.**

**My sons of Durin.**

Love. Love in the air, in the walls, in his beating of his heart, melting into his brother’s.

**My children.**

**My Kings of Erebor.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Twenty-three**

The first and largest caravan of Erebor’s former refugees arrived on a beautiful day in early summer.

The sky was clear blue, and from the battlements the king of Erebor could see over Dale, to the distant line of the Mirkwood. And there, rounding the lake, were the wagons and carriages and walking dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.

At the head of the line was a simple covered wagon drawn by two familiar brown ponies. At this distance, Fíli couldn’t quite make out the drivers, but he didn’t need to; that splash of blue was his mother’s best dress, and the flash of gold beside her was his father’s hair. Behind them was another cart, one of the drivers in a distinctive hat, the other a strange shadow of hair and axe. 

His family was coming home.

He heard the brush of boots from within the mountain, but didn’t turn. He knew those footsteps, trusted them, feared nothing with them at his back. 

Kíli came to a stop behind him. His fingers brushed over Fíli’s hair, which Kíli had spent an hour that morning fussing over (settling it into its customary braids but insisting on absolute perfection and only his favorite beads from among their scavenged collection), and then the increasingly familiar weight of the twisted gold circlet slid neatly into place.

“We should ride out and meet them,” Kíli said, circling around to check and make sure it was straight, “no matter what Balin says about proper decorum and greeting them at the gates.”

Fíli shook his head, but he felt a smile on his lips. “No, it would stop their forward momentum, and the others will want to get here as soon as possible.” He turned, tilting his head back a bit to look properly into his brother’s face. “We can wait a few more minutes and greet them properly.”

Kíli, predictably enough, stole a kiss.

It had been months since Fíli and Kíli woke from a dream that lasted days. They’d startled into consciousness with the voice of a Valar in their ears, Fíli’s hand pressing hard to his shoulder – whole again.

Whole elsewhere as well, only the splash of white scars (carefully traced with Fíli’s fingers, Fíli’s lips, a prayer of thanks against his brother’s skin) to remind them of the day they died.

Gandalf had greeted them with concern, only to be met by wild-tinged laughter as Fíli cradled his brother’s face and pulled him into a kiss that vibrated with joy. 

There had been many such kisses, in the hard times to follow.

Free of Durin, Fili called the Company and attempted, to the best of his ability, to explain the outcome of Gandalf’s assistance. That even Gandalf himself seemed confused was of some comfort to the perplexed dwarves, who finally had to simply accept Fíli, Kíli, and Gandalf’s word that all was well. To say that all accepted this as truth immediately would be untrue; it took weeks to convince all of them that Fíli was whole again.

Weeks in which Fíli and Kíli – together – carefully dealt with restoring quarters, finding clothing, sorting armor.

Weeks in which Fíli dealt with the women and children of Lake-town, in which he sat down, with Balin at his side, and spoke at length to Bard about Hetta, the woman who stole from them. She was sent, at last, back to the Men’s camp, confused and frightened by what she had seen but unable to explain it.

Fíli, whose heart Thorin had always said was too tender for a king, felt pity for the woman, as he could not in safety and good conscience explain to any Man or Elf what had happened in those terrible months inside the mountain.

When the women and children joyfully rejoined their families with the coming of spring, peace and something that could one day become understanding existed in the hearts of both Dwarves and Men.

Kíli handled the elves, arranging for simple trade and, when possible, locating and returning goods that had been ordered and never delivered due to Smaug’s arrival as a gesture of goodwill. He dealt, too, with messages, whether carried by foot or by raven’s wing.

As the Company grew to trust Fíli again, as they remembered his watchful kindness, they began to excitedly prepare for the coming day when Erebor would ring with the voices of children, the shouts of shopkeepers, and the constant ringing of hammers.

And one day a week, no matter what pressing issues demanded attention, Fíli and Kíli escaped and explored. The Company teased them, until it would grow out of hand and a fierce look from Ori would calm them all down, but they all supported the necessity of it.

“Young love,” Gloin would say.

And “Wisdom in youth,” Balin would add, and soon everyone was ordered to have a day off each week with a friend or brother.

Fíli and Kíli climbed the outer trails, found hidden passageways, disappeared into the forest and returned with a string of rabbits or a covey of quail. They had picnics and swam in streams and delved into the upper levels of the mines. Fíli took Kíli through the libraries. Kíli introduced Fíli to the ravens, one by one, and they brought them offal and shiny gifts in return for growing friendship.

Memories lingered.

For Fíli, they came as nightmares; brutal battles, bursts of blood, images that disappeared only at the sound of his brother’s voice, the touch of his brother’s hands. For Kíli, moments of silence, bouts of an unfamiliar melancholy, left in Senna’s thoughtful wake.

But they came, too, as a sort of borrowed experience. Durin, as Durin IV, had overseen repairs to Khazad-dûm, and so Fíli was able to better contribute to long conversations with Bombur and Balin about safely opening the mountain. He had taken in refugees after the Last Alliance, and so Fíli knew how to prepare for his own incoming people. He had planned grand coronations and feasts, made it through lean times, prepared in times of plenty.

For all the pain Durin had put Fíli through, there was much to be thankful for.

For Kíli, Senna’s stillness and friendship with the ravens remained. Min no longer called him Consort, but only _Kíli! Kíli!_ , demanding this or that treat or to accompany Fíli and Kíli on their private walks and hunts. 

She had the good taste to remove herself, should those walks turn into strolls, and then to lying in the grass, and then to explorations and laughter and gasps of pleasure, as they often did.

Kíli demanded that Fíli take back his crown immediately, but likewise insisted that Fíli not forget who he was. 

“Mine,” was Kíli’s answer, when Fíli asked exactly what that meant, and he looked so pleased with himself that Fíli had to kiss his smug grin away.

The days were long and hard, and there was much still to do. There was the matter of the Arkenstone, tucked away in a smial in Hobbiton; of allocating resources; of the gold and how best to clear it and its curse; of Dale, and the need to rebuild; of incoming nobles and how they would feel about a young king who granted favors and nobility to miners and tailors.

But more important, there was friendship, and laughter, and love.

And all for this: the return of their people to Erebor.

The day Fíli would truly become King Under the Mountain.

“We can’t go down yet, anyway,” he said, once Kíli’s lips were a bit swollen and his eyes well-darkened. “You’re not completely dressed.”

Fíli’s brother glanced down at himself. Kíli was startlingly handsome, at least in Fíli’s estimation; his beard was filling in, and his hair was as neat as could be, and he was dressed in silver and blue carefully stitched by Dori and a somewhat reluctant Nori. Several strands of dark hair were already escaping the braids by Kíli’s ears, and Fíli lifted a hand to tuck them neatly back into place. “I feel like I’m wearing twelve layers already,” he complained. “What do you mean I’m not completely dressed?”

Fíli chuckled and pressed one more kiss to that tempting mouth. “Wait here,” he ordered, ignoring Kíli’s rolled eyes and muttering about _feeling a little high and mighty aren’t we your majesty?_

Fíli’s heart sped up as he reached into a wooden box, delicately carved, and drew out the item that rested carefully on top of a wrinkled collection of sketches and drawings. It was ridiculous, feeling nervous, and yet-

Well.

He stepped back onto the battlements, into the sunlight.

“You still need this,” he said, and lifted the circlet in his hands so that it caught the light spreading over the mountainside.

“It’s-” Kíli frowned. “It’s just like yours.”

“Not quite. Mine is gold.” Fíli tugged on one of Kíli’s braids, and Kíli ducked his head automatically, with a little yelp of protect. “Yours is not.” 

“The Consort’s crown should be smaller-”

Fíli laid the circlet on his brother’s dark hair, settled it on his brow.

Twisting braids of silver and white gold settled perfectly on Kíli’s brow, echoed in the silver thread in Kíli’s tunic. Something else flickered as the third line – delicate and strong, catching the light and reflecting it back like diamonds.

“It’s so light,” Kíli said, rolling his eyes up as if he could see it that way.

“Yes.” Fíli let his fingers trail along Kíli’s jaw.

In a moment, he would pull them inside, stand side-by-side in front of the mirror. Fíli, fair-haired and blue-eyed, dressed in rich Durin blue inlaid with gold; Kíli, dark where Fíli was light, a complimentary shadow; and two crowns, sleek and simple and perfectly matched. 

But now he didn’t need to.

He could see it, in his mind’s eye.

Kíli touched it, ran his fingers along the sparkling twists. “Is this-?”

“Mithril.” Fíli smiled. “Dwalin knew enough to work with it, and there was some jewelry in the royal apartments – enough to melt down for this.”

“You can’t waste mithril on a crown!”

Fíli grinned, his old, knowing grin, the one that used to infuriate Kíli when they were younger, but that made him flush and smile now. “There wasn’t enough to make anything larger, or I would have wrapped you from head to toe in it.” He took Kíli’s wrist in his hands, lifted them, pressed a kiss to the right pulse point. “It symbolizes protection.” The other, the thrum of Kíli’s life against his lips. “It symbolizes strength.” A final kiss, to Kíli’s mouth. “It symbolizes everything you are to me.”

Kíli blushed.

Fíli grinned.

“Kíli, Friend of the Ravens, King Under the Mountain. Let’s go bring our people home.”

If they ran down the stairs, hand in hand, no one was there yet to remind them of solemnity and decorum.

As the years passed, and became decades, they never heeded them anyway. They were in love, and stronger together; Fíli never saw reason to hide that from his people.

**XXIII**

“Very good, Reela! And who was next?”

The little girl straightened her back and shook back her braids, the very picture of a tiny royal. “After Thráin II was Thorin II Oakenshield, the King Who Wore No Crown.”

Her careful pronunciation of the king’s full title earned her a soft chuckle from today’s guest tutor, a favorite of the children when it came to learning the line of Durin. He admitted he’d once had trouble focusing and memorizing the royal line, and so he had fun little games and rhymes to help the children remember. He could also sometimes be convinced to give impromptu weapons’ lessons if the children got too antsy; he was considered a prodigy of the bow. “Yes, and what did he do?”

“He led the Company of the Four Great Houses to the Mountain, and reclaimed it from the dragon Smaug!”

Hissing noises from the other children, growls and gurgles, as of a dragon in their midst.

“With?”

“With Lord Bilbo, the greatest Hobbit ever!”

There was a chattering of agreement from Reela’s classmates at the mention of The Great Bilbo, though a few insisted loudly that The Brave Frodo was the most amazing Hobbit ever while another pair declared Samwise the Brave two times more amazing than any Baggins. 

This time, the girl won a true laugh and a wide smile. “Indeed he was! And then?”

“After Thorin II Oakenshield was Fíli, the Golden Flame of Erebor!”

This name was greeted with cheers and a couple of longing sighs from the more romantic students. Fíli’s secretary and later chief advisor had left a number of pictures of the king, which were kept in the royal archives the children had visited a few months earlier.

“Ah,” came a voice from the doorway, “but Fíli was different from all the kings who came before.” A smile, warm, shadows under his eyes. “Why was that?”

“Uncle!” Reela spun on her heel and bounded to the newcomer, her arms raised. The dwarf laughed softly and swept her into his arms, accepting the noisy kiss she pressed to his bearded cheek. 

“Kisses won’t get you out of your recitations, Reela,” the tutor chided as Uncle walked in with his pink-cheeked burden.

“I don’t need to cheat with kisses!” Reela announced majestically. “The reason Fíli was different is that he was not king alone. When our people returned to the mountain, Fíli held a coronation! And he crowned his most beloved, Kíli, with a crown of silver and mithril, to match his crown of gold!”

Uncle smiled. “That he did.” His eyes flickered to their tutor over an intimate smile. “It was said that Fíli and Kíli ruled as one-”

“-each erasing his weaknesses with the other’s strengths!” Reela added excitedly. She adored the great love story of Fíli and Kíli. “It is said they carried a single heartbeat in two breasts!” 

Her tutor grinned. “That exactly right!” he praised. “And tomorrow, when we visit the royal treasury, you shall see their crowns for yourselves!”

The children ooooed and aaahhhed as Reela and her uncle settled beside the tutor. This changed to a noise of delighted disgust when their tutor leaned in to steal a quick kiss, right on her uncle’s lips. 

Reela wrinkled her nose and tugged on her tutor’s beard. “Teacher,” she said, because that was the appropriate name to call him when he was helping with her class, though they were actually cousins; he was her mother and uncle’s first cousin, “have _you_ ever seen Fíli and Kíli’s crowns?”

He smiled, and exchanged a fond look with Reela’s uncle, reaching out and touching his brow lightly. “Yes I have,” he said, his voice unusually gentle. “Many times.”

“Is it very beautiful?”

“Is it very grand?!” demanded a small boy.

“Does it have diamonds? And rubies? And _sapphires_?” called an excited lass in the back.

Her tutor laughed. He laughed freely and often, which earned the children’s love as surely as his games and tales did. “No, they are very simple crowns, compared to most. Certainly, they’re nothing like King Frior’s, with its inlaid jewels. But they’re beautiful in their way. They were crafted in love and friendship, which made them perfect.” 

Reela’s uncle reached out and tucked an errant lock of hair behind her tutor’s ear. Their eyes were full of memories, something ancient that the children, in their youth, could not see. Their parents did, from time to time, and marveled at it; had marveled since they were only boys, seemingly born inseparable. Her tutor tilted into the touch with a soft, pleased hum before straightening up, looking Reela sternly in the eye (he could look very, very stern when he wanted), and asking, “And who was next?”

Reela heaved an impressive sigh. “Um….there was…..ah….”

She looked beseechingly at her uncle.

He was the prince, and brilliant, already helping to plan their people’s exodus from the overcrowded and over-mined mountain and return to Khazad-dûm, despite his youth. (That was meant to be a secret, but Reela had very good ears, and adults often forgot she was in the room. She thought it was all very exciting, and planned to be a great warrior and travel at her uncle’s side when the time came to take back the mountain. It was already said he would lead them as prince, a fierce warrior with talents well beyond his years.) Of course he knew all the family histories, since he would one day be king after her grandfather.

Her uncle smiled, finally drawing his gaze away from his husband, and hinted, “Next was Dáin III.”

“Yes! Yes! Who came to live in Erebor and learn to be king and then he became king of Erebor and the Iron Hills and ever since then it has been one kingdom!” Reela blurted the words out on a single breath, and so had to stop for a few small gasps right at the end.

“She reminds me of you when you were a child,” her uncle murmured over Reela’s head. 

Reela’s tutor tossed him a sly look. “Oh? And which time would that be?”

Her uncle reached out, taking her tutor’s hand in his, lifting it, and pressing a kiss to his pulse. “Every time,” Uncle said, his lips curving into a teasing smile. “The greatest constant in our lives is that you will always and forever, be a brat. But,” a wink as he let go of the wrist, “always the brat who holds my heart.”

Reela blinked at them, confused, as her tutor glared and sputtered, “Is that meant to be romantic?!” and her uncle wrapped her in his arms and hid his gentle laugh in her unravelling braids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you all._   
>  _I am humbled and blessed by all your kindness and support._   
>  _Special thanks to damnitfili, for lending her editing skills, and to all the wonderful people who took the time to comment again and again._   
>  _And thank you especially to Linane, for being an incredible friend, co-creator, and artist, and for making this story happen._   
>  _With love and gratitude,_   
>  _Quill_

**Author's Note:**

> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)


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